


Pax Hunters, Assemble!

by Quiet_Shadow



Series: Seiberutopia Tales Online [2]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Animated (2007)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Video Game World, And They May Not Be Wrong, Angst and Feels, Developing Friendships, Disabled Character, Fun, Gen, Getting to Know Each Other, Light Angst, MMORPGs, Mental Health Issues, Mistakes, Or At Least That's What the Other Characters Think, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Parent-Child Relationship, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Discovery, Team Up, Team as Family, Teambuilding, Video & Computer Games, Video Game Mechanics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:47:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27724373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quiet_Shadow/pseuds/Quiet_Shadow
Summary: Getting online was only the first step.Plunged in the vaste world of Seiberutopia Tales Online, Optimus the Geomancer, Ratchet the Healer, Omega the Warrior, Prowl the Rogue/Ninja, Bumblebee the Bard and Bulkhead the Gunner are trying to find their footing, with more or less success.Suffice to say, between game mechanics to understand and overcome, random bits of (extended) bad luck, Auction Houses putting thievery to shame and players who can't take 'no' and 'leave me alone!' for an answer, the experience feels mixed for some.But a series of chance encounters may very well changes it all.And perhaps, just perhaps, leads to the creation of a Guild that'll mark S.T.O.'s history...Assuming they can overcome their first Dungeon together to begin with.
Series: Seiberutopia Tales Online [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1328435
Comments: 24
Kudos: 46





	1. The Archer in the Inn

**Author's Note:**

> After a little wait, here comes the second part of the Seiberutopia Tales Online storyverse.
> 
> After getting a glimpse of their lives in the real world, we're finally reaching the point many readers have waited for: their first meeting(s)!
> 
> Let see how our characters are handling their first foray online, shall we? :)

In truth, there was nothing very outstanding about the ‘Bold Bowman’. It was a simple two-story tall inn, similar to the many scattered others across the various lands of S.T.O., where the weary players could go and ‘rest’ in a safe setting before continuing their journey to the next quest. A couple of NPC stood as innkeeper and traders to buy the extra goods you might have gathered for coins, and there was even a Quest Giver outside near the stables. Optimus had seen him in passing, though he had yet to take the Quest. He had already three to fill in the area and was hesitant to pick more objectives at the moment.

Plus, he would have to stop playing soon; his shift would start in just another cycle. It truly wasn’t the most ideal time to dwell deeper into the Quest lines proposed in the Plains of Keldelys. So far, he had had to deal with a pack of Proto-wolves threatening a village, he had had to find the escaped Gallium-Goat of an injured farmer before ‘milking’ them, helped a young Protoform pick special Aurum-Apples in an orchard invaded by giant wasps, played messenger/courier carrier between a couple of lovers in two distant outposts and helped a baker by providing him with the ingredients for his newest recipe, all coming from specific map areas Optimus had had to explore and fight through.

Personally, he could have done without the sticky, caramel-colored waters of the Sweet Swamp or the trek among the Sugary Quick Sands. If any of those places had been real, Optimus was certain his plating would have itched like mad and his joints would have locked up.

That said, Optimus had to admit the areas he had explored fitted the zone. The Plains of Keldelys were themed after desserts and treats of various origins, from Cybertron and its colonies to more organic ones introduced by the developers for variety. It was a haven for those who had the Cooking job, because there were recipes aplenty to find and obtain as recompenses for fulfilled quests. Their occasional stickiness and strange mismatching asides, the local architecture was rather fun to discover and observe. It wasn’t everyday you could surf down on a ‘mountain’ made of ‘real’ ice-cream. If Optimus remembered right, the local Dungeon Boss was an evil witch who turned the local NPCs into energon-goodies and her ‘palace’ was filled with unique enemies such as gingerbread mechs armed with candy-cane swords and sentient jellies which tried to absorb you. At least, it had been so the first time he had played; he’d have to check out of the Dungeon had been revamped.

Sentinel had hated it with a passion.

Grimacing at the sudden reminiscence, Optimus hunched his shoulders and stared down harder at his inventory, sorting down items faster. His peregrinations through the maps had been fruitful and he had plenty to sell, even if it was cheap, basic stuff. Perhaps he ought to save a certain amount in his bank vault for later? Something that S.T.O. had taught him was that everything had value and everything could be used. Of course, your inventory and your vault’s space were also limited, so you had to choose what you truly wanted to conserve with care.

  


He was going to sell the [Thorny Cane], since he had better weapons now, and the old cape he had traded for a sturdier ones. After a moment of reflection, he added a pile of [Candied Nuts] to the ‘to sell’ window; he was going to have access to better, more regenerative dishes once he reached the next level, which wouldn’t be long now, so he didn’t need to stockpile as many anymore.

It was as he was nodding to himself that a hand landed on his shoulder, startling him. He didn’t cry out, but it was a near thing. Especially as whoever the ‘bot who had come up to him opened his mouth to say. “I can’t believe it! Optimus? Is that really you?”

The red and blue mech tilted his head back and blinked, meeting a somewhat familiar face backward. “… Rodimus Prime?” he asked wearily, wondering if he wasn’t mistaken.

But no; there was no doubt to be had. In real life like in game, the younger mech wore the same outstanding, optic-catchy color scheme and that very distinctive flame-like detailing on his chest, so it was hard to mistake him for anyone else.

Honestly, Optimus couldn’t say he was truly familiar with the other Prime. Rodimus was younger than him by a good amount of stellar cycles and had belonged to another batch of recruits during his time in Bootcamp. He had crossed path with him in the Academy later on, when Rodimus had started his own formation to become an officer, but they had never truly talked. Nodded at each other in corridors in passing, sure, but Optimus wasn’t certain if they had exchanged more than ten words which weren’t greetings.

As Rodimus grinned and sauntered down to come sit on the bench across Optimus, putting his elbows on the table, Optimus tried not to let himself squirm awkwardly. Sure, he had always known he would meet people he knew sooner or later in Seiberutopia Tales Online, and there were worse people to meet than Rodimus Prime, but still…

It felt like a pit had started to open itself at the bottom of Optimus’ fuel tank. A pit fueled by a growing feeling of shame and inadequacy.

Suddenly, Optimus remembered that even if they technically had the same rank, there was an abysm of difference between them.

Rodimus was… well, if there was a serious candidate to the Magnus’ succession at the moment, the scuttlebutt definitely pointed at Rodimus Prime (idly, Optimus wondered how Sentinel took it before ruthlessly squashing the thought; he had enough self-loathing on his plate right now without adding more). The ‘Chosen One’, as gossip called him. Rodimus Prime had everything and was everything Optimus wasn’t.

Friendly, smart (or at least smart and/or determinate enough to get in the Academy a good decade before the rest of his class at Bootcamp), a master at servo-to-servo fighting and a capable weapon designer (rumor said he had done his own energy bow’s, though Optimus wasn’t certain if it was true or not), Rodimus was definitely the cream of the crop of the Autobots. The ceremony in which he had received his stripes of Prime had been widely attended. Optimus should known; he had been invited too.

And he has spent the evening ducking behind columns to avoid Sentinel and Ultra Magnus and, well, most of his former class’ graduates.

Optimus hadn’t even had a graduation ceremony of his own, let alone a friendly face with him when Ultra Magnus had handed him the badge which marked Optimus’ accession to the rank of Prime. He was Prime because Ultra Magnus had decided he was still worth something, somehow. Rodimus was Prime because everyone could see he was exceptional. They just… They didn’t belong to the same world at all (even if they briefly had and could still, not that Optimus put much faith in it). It really surprised him Rodimus had even recognized him in the first place.

Though, well,… everyone had to know what a screw-up Optimus was, hadn’t they?

So surely Optimus could be forgiven for feeling wary and nervous as Rodimus opened his mouth.

“I can’t believe it’s really you! I mean, I saw pretty much everyone from the Academy online at some point. Well, everyone except you; I wasn’t certain you even knew how to play,” he joked. “Wow, how long has it been since we last saw each other? Override’s retirement, no?”

Optimus shifted awkwardly. “I, uh, I don’t think so. I… didn’t go at the bar with everyone back then,” he coughed. Mostly because he had been afraid he wouldn’t be welcome, given most of his former class had been there and he wasn’t certain they’d welcome in with open arms if he dared to enter.

Rodimus blinked. “You’re sure? I was certain I had seen you there. So… was it the memorial for Big Bang Prime? Not the last one, obviously, but perhaps the one before that?” he tilted his head, frowning.

“Maybe?” Optimus hesitated, remembering the yearly ceremony held for the fallen Prime who had defended Iacon at the end of the Great War. Optimus tried to attend whenever he could, but the occasions had been far and in between in the last hundred stellar cycles, mostly due to the _Dion_ being off from Cybertron at the usual date of the ceremony. “Though it’s probably older.” Much older, in fact; Optimus didn’t think he had been able to assist to the full ceremony in twenty stellar cycles, and as far as he remembered, Rodimus hadn’t been there.

The red and orange mech hummed. “Oh, well. Whatever,” he shrugged before smiling. “Sounds like we have a lot of catching up to do! By the way, I really dig your looks!”

Optimus’ cheeks flushed. “Thank?” he offered weakly, throwing a look at the deep blue coat with white fur trimming he wore, the standard clothes for beginner Geomancers. Personally, he didn’t think it looked that good on him, but at least it didn’t clash with his natural coloring. “It’s a Geomancer Mantle,” he forced himself to add, trying for neutral small talk.

Rodimus nodded thoughtfully. “Aaaah, that explains why I didn’t recognize it at first glance. I don’t know that many Geomancers – I don’t think there even is one in my Guild at the moment – and the ones I know are all high-level players, so they all got rid of the beginner mantle for better protections or customized looks. They say it’s difficult to unlock due to the weak drop rate of the [Globe of Earth].”

“Oh, I don’t know about difficult,” Optimus mumbled, deciding not to bring up the fact he had found the Class Changing item by accident and a weird stroke of luck he still couldn’t explain. “It’s certainly a… different way to play,” he said instead, remembering his attempts at casting Terrain Magic.

He was lucky he was so good at dodging; else he’d have taken damages himself. One thing was certain, he’d need to be careful with where he was aiming with those spells and if he had party members with him, to make sure none of them was in the line of fire (that, or he’d have to be certain they had a good Healer on hand). Terrain Magic had a very wide Area of Effect.

“I bet,” Rodimus smiled. “Magicians and Supporters classes take more reflection and strategy to play than Tanks. Of course,” he said, reaching behind his shoulder to pat the bow strapped to his back, “they have plenty of advantages to make up for it.”

Optimus smiled more sincerely. “I agree. You’re an Archer, then?”

“Yep,” Rodimus said, making a popping noise.

“I… am surprised,” Optimus said after a moment, silently calculating how long Rodimus must have been playing the game from a casual comment he had overheard while they were still both in the Academy. “I would have thought you’d like to upgrade to another Class by now.” Those who started as Archers usually upgraded themselves fast to become Gunner, as the Changing Class item was one of the easiest to find and locate.

“And drop the whole Archer look and weapons? No thank you! I don’t see a Gunner with as much style,” Rodimus explained, tugging at the little feather cap he was wearing. The feather was gaudy as the Pit, probably taken from a Pewter-Peacock, and the cap wasn’t assorted to the short cloak wrapped around Rodimus’ shoulders, but it didn’t seem to bother him the slightest, so Optimus wisely shut up. “Between you and me, I really dislike the idea of using guns or lasers; it feels like cheating to me. But I guess it’s easier to use for people without imagination and sense of daring who have no idea how to properly use a bow,” he allowed. He looked right and left before leaning forward. “You know, I once saw someone who had managed to shoot himself in the back.”

Optimus’ mouth dropped. “How?”

Rodimus shrugged helplessly. “I have no idea. The foot, I would have understood, but the back…” he shook his head. “It did make for a great screen capture, though! Even the guy had a good laugh once he got over the fact he had done it all by himself,” he added with a peppy laugh. “Pretty nice fellow, an accountant on Velocitron; he had never held a weapon in his life and he had a mind more suited for Magician, but he still went with Archer because he thought it’d be fun. Now, I did advise him to go for Gunner as soon as he could, which he did, and last I heard of him, he had become a great shot who favored twined handguns. The mishap might have been embarrassing at first, but at least that mech tried to do something different with himself, which is more than I can say for a lot of players.”

Optimus frowned. “Different? I don’t…?”

He didn’t get to say another word edgewise, because even as he tried to talk, Rodimus put his hands around his mouth and shouted, making him push asides his current line of thought.

“Oy, Innkeeper, two [Blue Engex Cocktails] for our table!” Rodimus loudly called out, much to Optimus’ incredulity.

“Why are you calling to him like that? He’s a NPC, he can’t…” the red and blue mech started, only to cut himself short when two drinks materialized on the table. “What the Pit?” he let out despite himself.

“Special new feature they added with the last upgrade,” Rodimus grinned. “Pretty cool, isn’t it? You can order just like in a real bar and your order appears right on the table.”

“Y… yes, pretty cool,” Optimus replied, poking carefully at the drink (by the Allspark, was it a tiny umbrella balancing on the border?). “But… what’s the point? I mean, it’s not like those are real drinks or like we are in a real inn.”

Rodimus chuckled. “Aren’t you Mister Serious? The point is to make the game more fun. Or more realistic, I’m not sure. Anyway, I find it neat,” he said as he grabbed one of the beverages and took a sip. “Come on, drink too,” Rodimus nudged Optimus with a wink. “You’ll see, the bonus effects you get aren’t bad at all.”

“If you say so,” Optimus replied dubiously, but took the other drink anyway. There was nothing explicit in the drink’s description – {[Blue Engex Cocktail]: Sweet and lastingly refreshing} – and he waited anxiously for new icons to pop up.

He blinked as ‘Speed Up by 20%’ as well as a timer showed at the top of his screen. Then he blinked again as his vision became slightly blurry. “What…?”

“Surprise, you’re drunk!” Rodimus said cheerily, still ‘sipping’ his drink as if nothing was wrong. “Little side effect that last, oh, for a handful of kliks, nothing to worry about. It makes for a fun moment or two when you’re trying to infiltrate a monster’s lair and be discreet! I mean, you can’t quite walk in a straight line while the ‘Drunk’ status is on and with the blurry vision, you may miss details or monsters on the sides. I ended up tripping over a sleeping HellfireHound, which in turn alerted the whole mob; my party and I had to fight through and half of us ended in the cemetery. They weren’t happy with me for the most part but the others thought it was hilarious. Oh, and did you know that if you get drunker, you can have hallucinations? Those fluffy, horned Petro-rabbits that hop around you are cute like you wouldn’t believe,” the other Prime chuckled. “Too bad you can only see them if you hit the truly hard stuff or if it’s the Brewers Bash.”

“… Why were you infiltrating an enemy lair while drunk?” Optimus asked slowly, feeling his optic ridges rising up despite himself. He must have misheard. Or perhaps Rodimus was just kidding, playing with him?

But no, apparently. Rodimus just blinked and tilted his head to the side as if _Optimus_ was the one who had said something weird. “Because it was funnier this way?” he said as if it was obvious – and it certainly seemed so in Rodimus’ mind.

Optimus could only stare hard at him, feeling confused.

Was it really Rodimus Prime?

It… it made no sense! That wasn’t how Rodimus Prime acted! Sure, he didn’t know the other mech that well, but every time Optimus had seen him, despite his friendly disposition, Rodimus had acted very serious, prim and proper, speaking formally to his fellow Officers and to his teachers. The way the Rodimus in front of him acted was nothing like the real world version and it threw Optimus out of a loop.

“Hmm? Something wrong, Optimus? The Cybercat got your glossa? Optimus? Hello?” Rodimus asked, waving his hand in front of Optimus’ face until the other Prime backed off, startled. “Ah, better! You’re alright here, my mech?”

“You’re… not acting like yourself,” Optimus blurted out, feeling heat crawl on his cheeks as Rodimus leaned backward and gave him a stunned look before groaning.

“Oh Allspark, not you too!” Rodimus groaned, facepalming dramatically. “What is it with people not letting go of the real world? Optimus, my mech, don’t take it badly, but you. Should. Relax.” He said, poking at Optimus’ chest. “It’s a **GAME** , my friend. A game! There is no need to always prim and proper here! You can be and act any way you choose! And me? Me, I want to be carefree for one! Seriously, why do people always expect me to act like some Mini-Sentinel Prime or something? I’m not THAT big of a regulation follower!” He threw himself back on the bench and almost fell backward, having apparently forgotten there was no back for him to lie against.

Optimus would have found it hilarious if he wasn’t too busy startling (and fighting down the mental image of Rodimus repainted in Sentinel’s blue and imitating his sneer, which was a frankly disturbing picture). “Please, do not say things like that again,” he said faintly.

“Hmm? The fact it’s a game, or the fact I’m not a Mini-Sentinel?”

“Second one,” Optimus pointed out helpfully. “And of course this is a game, I know that. But still…”

“Ah, ah, no ‘still’,” Rodimus waved a finger in front of his face, looking more serious than before, even if there was still a smile tugging at his lips. “It’s a game, and in a game, you can do whatever you want, point. It’s a good way to relieve pressure, that’s for sure.”

“Pressure? Do you truly feel… pressured out there?” Optimus asked warily, remembering the last few times he had seen Rodimus in person or the pictures taken of him that illustrated the news whenever he and his team had accomplished a deed or he was interviewed on the latest measures taken by the Council. If he was stressed, he never showed it.

Rodimus must have seen something in his face, because he smiled sadly. “I’m good at not showing it, aren’t I? Oh, I know what they say about me, ‘Chosen One’, ‘brilliant example of what an Autobot is meant to be’, ‘shiniest cog in the Great Autobot Machine’ and all that jazz,” he dismissed with a wave of his hand. “But I didn’t get there just by smiling a big, goofy smile at my instructors. I had to work my aft off in order to complete Bootcamp in record time then enter the Academy in advance – which I totally hadn’t planned, let me tell you. I had just wanted to try the placement exams to see how well I could do. Surprise, surprise, it turned a lot easier than I thought and I made top score and suddenly, I had the Magnus’ office hounding me to just go and start classes right this moment so I could join the Elite Guard at high speed.”

“And you didn’t want to? I would have thought it was your dream. I know almost all Cadets I went to Bootcamp with wanted to,” Optimus asked cautiously, looking at Rodimus with new optics, as if he had never seen him before. Which, perhaps, wasn’t that far off from the truth. He had seen Rodimus, but he had never searched to truly _see_ him and what was underneath the perfect Autobot’s armor.

“Oh, I did,” Rodimus confirmed, taking his chin in his hands. “But I hadn’t planned for it to be so fast, that’s all. I thought I had more time before me, time I could have used to, you know, just have a bit of fun here and there, relax, hang out with friends, seduce a cute mech or two or three,… All those things young mechanisms are supposed to be doing in their off time, right? Well, surprise, surprise, I didn’t. I got into the Academy and suddenly, all optics were on me. Teachers and Cadets were all eyeing and praising me like I was the second coming of Ultra Magnus, or were hating my shiny metal guts and didn’t make a secret of it and couldn’t wait to see me fail so they could push forward new ‘no early allowance’ rules. To top it off, Ultra Magnus himself called to say he was expecting great things out of me. I’m letting you guess how it made me feel,” He sighed.

Optimus had to fight down the urge to pat his hand in sympathy. He could very well imagine the mix of giddiness and nervousness such a comment must have left in Rodimus’ processor.  


Rodimus wasn’t finished. “Hard to take time off for yourself when you got so much ridding on your shoulders, eh? I spent my Academy years olfactive sensor deep into all bookfiles I could get my hands on, on endless assignments that were due for yesterday, what’s with the little time they gave us to complete them – or gave me, I suspect two or three teachers upped the difficulty just for me – but I did it anyway, and always got good to passable grades. Wasn’t going to give those fraggers the joy of failing,” he snorted. “It was the same with physical and battle training; I always had to show myself the best I could, and I did. Top marks everywhere – except in the combat simulation against Megatron. I could never beat your record,” he said, looking at Optimus in the optics. “You rock, my mech.”

Optimus startled, surprised by the respect he could see in the younger mech’s optics. “Th… thank you,” he muttered. “But I was just lucky.”

“You don’t get lucky with the Megatron scenario,” Rodimus objected. “You have to have talent, and you have plenty of it.” He hesitated, obviously wanting to ask something, but held his glossa in the end, for which Optimus was grateful. It didn’t take a genius to realize he was curious about Optimus’ messy retirement from the Academy, despite getting his rank of Prime, but that he was too polite or too acutely aware of how hurtful it could turn to directly ask, especially since the two of them were just acquaintances.

“So,” Rodimus coughed awkwardly, reprising his monologue. “Anyway, I skyrocketed through my studies and before I knew, I was made a Minor, then got promoted to Major only two stellar cycles later when the investigation I was leading with the Praxus Enforcers Headquarters busted one of the biggest Syk production ring of all Cybertron. I dunno why they assigned me the rank of Prime so soon, honestly; in theory, I should have stayed a Major for a good while.” He tapped his lower lip. “I keep suspecting it’s due to the fact that the sudden retirement of Nominus, Septimus and Beta took Command by surprise and they needed to fill the holes ASAP.”

“It truly was a surprise in Nominus’ case, but Septimus and Beta had to have been anticipated, no?” Optimus asked, remembering the older Primes. Much older, he mentally amended. Septimus was as old if not older as Kup Minor and had mostly been retired from active duty already to supervise the reconstruction of the Youth Learning Center. Beta Prime was older still and hadn’t been seen leaving her workshop in vorns, leading to rumors she had actually died in there and the Higher Ups were hiding it from gossip newsreels. As for Nominus… Okay, Nominus had actually been a surprise, but mechs chose to leave the Elite Guard or the active ranks of the Autobots every solar cycle for one reason or the other, so it wasn’t exactly suspect either.

But it was true the departure of three Primes had left glaring holes in the ranks, holes which had needed to be filled as fast as possible.

So when considering the facts, Rodimus’ quick ascension to Prime made perfect sense, even if it had probably made older, more experience mechs jealous.

Rodimus shrugged. “Perhaps yes, perhaps not. They certainly didn’t waste time in picking replacement, then promoting Minors to Majors to go with it.” He visibly hesitated. “… They didn’t promote Sentinel, in case you were wondering.”

Optimus’ Spark throbbed. “I know.” Even if he didn’t have any direct contact with his (former) friend and even if he hadn’t officially graduated, Optimus still received the Academy newsletter, where the lists of promotions were regularly published. Sentinel hadn’t been mentioned in it since he had graduated as a Minor. It must have hurt the other mech’s pride, to know he had been passed over for a younger mech like Rodimus. And he didn’t think he wanted to know what Sentinel thought of Optimus’ current rank of Prime, if he knew about it… And even if it was mostly a figurehead rank at this point.

Funny how things worked, he mused silently as he watched Rodimus order another drink, as if he could truly become stone-cold drunk in the game. He had never expected to look at Rodimus and wonder if he wasn’t gazing into a warping mirror, after all.

The empty glass container was put down and disappeared, now completely empty. “I know everyone assumed I’d work in Iacon, join up the Magnus’ office or something similar, perhaps even Intelligence, but I really, really didn’t want to stay in the public optic that much, you know? So when I saw there was an opening on Athenia, well, I took it. I got assigned a team – cool ‘bots, really, but they’re also a handful – and I’ve been on work ever since.” He started making a face. “That too, I assume it’s due to my ‘fame’ as an exceptional Cadet. It’s eerie, you know, lording over a team where all the members are older than you and one is _that_ close to retirement he keeps calling you a young punk.” Optimus said nothing but nodded in sympathy. His situation on the _Dion_ wasn’t much better. Rodimus sighed. “So, there. You can’t say I had much occasion to, ah, ‘blow some steam’ in the real world for a good while now, and frankly, if I don’t find a way to evacuate the stress before it eats me from the inside, you can bet I’m going to crack and they’ll be shipping my secured aft straight up to the Head Shrink.”  


If he was bitter about it, then he hid it well.

There was a long silence between the two of them, only broken by the pre-recorded dialogues of the various NPCs going through their programmed tasks and the occasional chatting from other players who were entering or exiting the inn without paying attention to the pair of players in the corner.

“So… being… casual… is your way to ‘blowing steam up’?” Optimus asked after a moment. His vision was less blurry now, which was a relief. He wasn’t sure he liked the effect very much.

“Doh,” Rodimus snorted, but it wasn’t mocking. “How else am I supposed to do it? You can only shoot that many debris out of the path of the Space Bridge before it gets dull. Here, though… Here, it’s never dull,” he grinned. “Just the other day, I got to shoot at Techno-Bats while hanging upside down from a derelict bridge that was inches away from totally crumbling.”

“… Is that part of a Quest line?” Optimus asked, trying to picture the scene. Weirdly enough, he could actually hear Rodimus hooting in glee.

“Hmm? Oh, no. Well, the hanging upside-down wasn’t, I just wanted to do it. But shooting the Techno-Bats down was totally part of a Quest. I just thought that to be more efficient, I needed to think like a Techno-Bat – know your enemy and all that jazz. You know, like they teach us at the Academy,” Rodimus replied with the utmost serious, making Optimus wonder if it was true at all or if Rodimus was pulling his leg.

Probably both, he decided after a few kliks of thinking.

“It’s certainly a… liberal application,” he said instead, feeling his lips twitch upward into a small smile. “And did it work?”

“Well, I’m still not sure what Techno-Bats are thinking, but the shooting angle was great – at least until one of my party members fell through part of the bridge and destabilized the whole structure. Then I went swinging side to side and my shooting became slag. Still worth it, though,” he nodded in satisfaction. “Can you imagine doing that in the real world?”

“No,” Optimus answered truthfully. It would be incredibly dangerous and reckless to do and trying to cram it into a report would end up with his superiors shrieking in his audios until they shorted out.

“See? **THAT** ’s the problem with everyone nowadays!” Rodimus explained, hitting the table with his fists, making a few players turn toward him before deciding it wasn’t worth getting involved in. “No imagination! I don’t know for how long you’ve been playing, but if there is something I noticed, it’s that players almost all tend to stick with what they are in real life, or as close as they can manage.” He started counting on his fingers. “Take, oh, I dunno, the Decepticons players; most of them opt for Tank classes to be heavy hitters, which are exactly what they are in real life. Councilor Botanica is on record playing a Druid, and given how much she’s started dwelling into organic plant specimens, it’s not exactly a surprise. Most of the Elite Guard players? Noble Knights, all of them seeking out how to become Paladins, just like Ultra Magnus. The Cyber-Dojo students? Almost all those I know went on to become Grapplers and Black Belts or Monks, with the occasional Ranger or Rogue.”

“I don’t see how it’s bad; if it’s how they prefer to play, surely you can respect their preferences?” Optimus pointed out.

“And I do,” Rodimus argued back. “But it shows how much, even in a fictional setting, we’re trying to consciously or unconsciously reproduce what we are in real life. I remember reading once, in an Intergalactic Council’s publication, that most organic species consider Cybertronians very bad at improvisation…”

Optimus chortled. “Seriously? How do they think we managed to keep fighting the Decepticons? It certainly wasn’t due to superior firepower at first!”

Rodimus shook his head with energy. “I know! Silly, isn’t it? But somewhere, they may be onto something. We can improvise; but I don’t think most of the population has an idea of how much they can or are actually allowed to do when in a new setting. They’re… too set into their routine and innate programming. I totally blame the remnant of the Functionism mindset for that. Those old ideas that ‘function is determinate by form and shouldn’t be strayed from’ are so stupid and sickening, it makes me wants to purge,” he whined. “Even ousted from power, they still left claw marks in society.”

Optimus hummed noncommittally. For all his fondness for history, the Functionism period wasn’t one he loved to dwell in. Archives on it were rather sordid and, even if he didn’t want to say it aloud, he was thankful the Destrons’ rebellion put an end to the era. “Don’t you think you’re exaggerating? The Entertainment industry has never been as strong as today; we see more variety than ever before…”

“Sure, we do,” Rodimus groaned. “But that doesn’t change the fact players aren’t really opening themselves up to the full game experience. They’re still too busy thinking about real-life consequences when, guess what? There is NONE! Except if you decide to cosplay as your character and run around downtown Iacon after one drink too many and impair the circulation on the main traffic lane while trying to mock-shout at ‘mobs’, of course,” he added as an afterthought.

Optimus’ optic ridges rose. “Did you have something to do with that?”

“Totally innocent,” Rodimus swore, one hand on his chest, “but I still found it hilarious and I’m jealous I didn’t think of it earlier. Relax, I won’t,” he added at Optimus’ worried look. “I have more sense than that.”

“I certainly hope so, because you’ve shaken my certitudes about you so far,” Optimus replied, which earned him a hearty laugh, to which Optimus tentatively joined. How long had it been since he had done that? Just laughing with a friendly face in a bar, even if it was on a virtual world?

Too damn long, he realized. And it felt good. He… He needed to do that more often.

“Good!” Rodimus was back to put his elbows on the table. “Shaking things up is a specialty of mine. I’m hoping to make it even bigger when I manage to recruit a Decepticon-tagged player for my Guild.”

“You want to do **WHAT**?????!!!!!” Optimus’ fun crashed down and burned so fast it could have been a comet. Now he could only stare at his fellow Prime in incredulity. “Please, tell me it was a joke! You can’t actually…”

“And there you go again, telling me what I ‘can’ and ‘cannot’ do,” Rodimus sighed. “I can, and I will, mark my words!”

“But… your reputation! Not to mention, you could get arrested for…”

“Actually, nope, I won’t,” Rodimus replied serenely. “I checked the rules book thrice in every direction to be certain, in case I needed legal arguments to cover my aft. And you know what I discovered? I discovered there is literally nothing stopping you from befriending Decepticons if you want to. We’re not at war anymore, so it’s not fraternizing, unless you want to be very technical and kick-start a ground-breaking, Commonwealth-wide trial on the notion of fraternizing and its exact terms. Lots of our frontier worlds and colonies inhabitants would have to be held on trial as well, because let’s be realists, trading outposts don’t care about your faction, they care about your goods, and they won’t throw you out of town unless you’re breaking the law – which Decepticons don’t do,” Rodimus pointed out. “They need the trading too much themselves. So yeah, I can go and befriend a big bad Decepticon if I want. Granted, High Command will probably be all frowzy and frosty about it, but it’s not like they can oppose it, can they?”

Optimus just stared. “… I don’t know if you’re a genius or if you’re insane,” he finally said. “Even if you were right, which I’m still not sure you are, you know the Heralds of Halonix will never allow for a Decepticon recruit?”

“I’ll take the questioning of my sanity as a compliment,” Rodimus bobbed his head. “But who ever said anything about the Heralds of Halonix? I’m not part of their Guild.”

“Oh! Oh, but I thought… You’re Elite Guard, and…” Optimus stammered.

“… and Elite Guard members who plays tend to join the Heralds, yes, I know. But come on, I already spent every shift with the Guard; why would I want to hang around with them even in my downtime? No, I have my own Guild – eh, would you like to join in?” Rodimus suddenly offered. “The Circle of the Lost Light is always open to new members!”

Optimus blinked. “Uh…”

“We’re great fun, I assure you! Plenty of friendly people to hang out with! Missions like clockwork with extra party members to help you raise your levels! Plus, you know how it goes; if you want to do Dungeons and Raids and have an easier access to resources for your job, joining a Guild is a _Must_. You can join in whenever you want, we’ll be happy to count you onboard!”

Well, slag, Optimus thought frantically. Guild joining. He hadn’t thought so far yet, honestly, and Rodimus was taking him by surprise. It was tempting to accept, just so he wouldn’t have to worry about it later, but…

“Word of advice, if you want stability and a functional Guild, do NOT sign up for the Circle of the Lost Light,” someone said behind him, making Optimus jump out in fright and instinctively reach up for his weapon, before he remember that A) he was in a video game, he wasn’t risking anything if a stranger crept behind him and B) inns were Neutral, non-aggression zones unless they were under attack as part of a Quest line, so no weapons or offensive Spells could be used in its perimeter.

That didn’t make the sudden apparition of a player who hadn’t been there the klik before any less jarring.

“Rogue?” Optimus managed to guess and get out between clenched teeth, wondering if he should yell at the newcomer or not. Rogues had a special command called ‘Stealth’ which allowed them to literally disappear for short amount of times; they didn’t register on your proximity sensors when they did, which was annoying (cool too, but annoying, especially when the Rogue was a practical joker… or a Player Killer).

“Charged as guilty,” the new mech saluted. “Nightbeat, Rogue Extraordinary, at your service.”

“Charmed, I’m sure,” Optimus drawled. “And you don’t want me to join up Rodimus’ Guild because…”

“Because as a member, I feel it’s my duty to prevent unwary, innocent players to sign up without knowing what they’re getting into. Isn’t that right, O Grand Leader?” the dark blue and yellow mech added sarcastically, looking at Rodimus who fidgeted uneasily in his seat.

“Hi there, Nightbeat,” he offered cheerily, but his optics darted to the side as if he was calculating how to reach the closest exit. “I trust the ‘Temple of Hedden’ quest went well?”

“It did,” Nightbeat replied matter-of-factly, “though it would have been much easier if our best long-range support had been present. You wouldn’t believe how pesky it was to take on all those mobs at close range. Velocity mashed the resurrection button in order to put Skids and Pipes back to their pedes; she’s not happy about it at all,” he warned.

It made no sense whatsoever for Optimus, but given Rodimus’ nervous chuckle and his contrite expression, it made a lot more sense to him. Guild issues, Optimus decided, and probably not the kind he wanted to dwell in.

Rodimus blinked. “Wait, Skids came? But he’s not on the right level for the Temple…”

“No, but we all thought he could use the shared EXP to climb a level or two up, so of course he went along. Might not even have been a bad idea if, oh, our most powerful player actually showed up at the meeting point. Isn’t that right, Nautica?” he asked, nodding toward a purple femme with an Archer hat who had just entered the inn, beckoning her to their table.

“Totally,” the femme agreed, sliding down on the bench to sit next to Optimus, to whom she held a hand. “Hi, Nautica, Archer, Circle of the Lost Light, nice to meet you!”

“Likewise?” Optimus offered, gingerly shaking the femme’s hand and wondering if perhaps he shouldn’t get away from the table very fast. The situation had grown very tense, suddenly, despite the friendly smile on the femme’s face. “I, uh, take a single Archer wasn’t good enough for the Quest you took?”

“Well, yes and no,” Nautica sighed. “I could have managed on my own if we had stayed in the lower levels, but Getaway and Atomizer decided they wanted to do the third floor, and that’s where the mobs start getting really nasty, you know? We came _that_ close to a total party wipe-out,” she said, holding two of her fingers apart. “We told them, ‘no, let’s wait for Rodimus, he won’t be long, Nautica’s aiming range is too short to take the monsters from a safe distance and they do serious damages in close quarters’, but did they listen? Noooo,” she drawled.

“So, technically, not my fault,” Rodimus was quick to jump in. “It’s not like I would have let you head so far inside the Temple, not when the first Quest in the building can be filled just by staying on the ground floor!”

“Yes, but you weren’t there,” Nightbeat piped in, arms crossed over his chest, “and you know Getaway tends to want to act as the leader when you’re not around. Plus, you had _promised_ you would be here today, and instead? No Rodimus. What a surprise,” he snorted. “So, what happened this time? Met another old ladybot who needed pointers? Found a Quest to hunt and catch Boron-Butterflies for an entomologist NPC? Or,” he nodded toward Optimus, “did you just decide to go and harass players so they’d join our Guild too?”

“Oh, he didn’t harass me, really,” Optimus protested. Nautica patted his hand.

“Well, you’re lucky. These days, he has started to follow around this big purple fellow with a horned helm to try and convince him to join. He pesters him with questions, even when the other mech charge at him with every intention to activate the Duel Mode and smash him into the ground.” She shook her head. “I have nothing against Decepticons, but I don’t think Rodimus has a good recruitment pitch here.”

Optimus coughed. “I wouldn’t dare judging…”

“You can,” Nightbeat said bluntly. “Joke asides, he asked you to join up? Then listen to us, mech, and run while you still can,” he warned.

“Eh!” Rodimus yelped in indignation. “The Circle of the Lost Light is a good Guild! And if you don’t think so, nothing is stopping you from leaving,” he huffed.

Nightbeat and Nautica exchanged a fondly exasperated look; it reminded Optimus of the ones he and Elita would share over Sentinel’s shoulders. A look that said ‘he’s our friend and we like him but sometimes, I wish to strangle him’.

Troubled, he ducked his head and stared at the tabletop.

“Roddi, my friend, we love you to pieces,” Nightbeat started.

“But you can deny you do frankly weird things,” Nautica continued on the same tone. “The whole ‘shooting at Techno-Bats while upside down’ was fun, I grant you that…”

“But trying to ride and tame the Great Predacon from Loch Ky-Byonix so you could use his neck and back as a slope was dumb as hell,” Nightbeat said ruthlessly. “Likewise, we had nothing against the hunt for the Singing Ghost of the Crystalshore Shores…”

“But we would have liked a foreword about the fact it was a Secret Mini-Boss and that we needed to be more than four to take it down,” Nautica finished for him. “The reparation fees for our gear skyrocketed. And I didn’t like being stuck as a ghost in the cemetery as long as the rest of the party hadn’t defeated said Singing Ghost.”

Nightbeat nodded. “Then there was the time you rushed through the Newborn Insections’ hatchery screaming ‘ROOOOODIIIIIIMMMMMUSSSS PRIIIIIIIME!’ and we had no choice but to follow you instead of making plans to cross the room without getting torn to pieces.”

“Which we were,” Nautica said ‘helpfully’.

“Not to mention,” Nightbeat added, almost bored, “that your handling of the Guild’s matters tends to be… rocky.”

“I do my job,” Rodimus pouted like a petulant protoform as Optimus stared at him with wide optics, jaw dropping. “I arbitrate the disputes whenever I’m asked, I’m making sure the information board is up to date and I set times for official reunions, don’t I?”

“Yes, but you also try skipping those reunions whenever you can,” Nightbeat drawled. “Last orn, you tried to pretend you were dead!”

“And before that, you announced ‘No reunion today, let’s go meteor-surfing instead!” Nautica added with a giggle. “Admit it, Rodimus; you’re a great guy, but as an administrator…”

“That’s why I have good friends,” the red and orange mech singsonged. “I know they can handle things when I’m out of commission.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Nightbeat warned. “You still haven’t given us an explanation on why you missed the meeting – a meeting you had planned yourself, must I add. So, what happened this time?”

Rodimus tapped his fingers together. “Well, you see… Oh, my, that time already? I need to go, see you later, bye bye!” he blurted out.

Nightbeat and Nautica startled. “Eh, no, you can’t…!”

But Rodimus’ avatar was already dissolving into pixels after giving them a wink.

“Too late,” Nautica said mournfully. “I guess we’ll have to try and corner him the next time he shows up online.”

“Good luck on that,” Nightbeat sighed. “Think we should mutiny and oust him as Guild Leader?”

Nautica snorted. “Suuure. And who would you put in place? Getaway? The mech only cares about results and his position on the score boards, he’s no fun.”

“And Rodimus is a bit too fun,” Nightbeat countered, but he didn’t seem angry. To Optimus’ audio, it was as if they were rehashing an old, familiar argument, one they kept by habitude and fondness, and that it was a harmless threat. “So, stranger,” the blue and yellow mech added, turning toward the Prime, “are you actually considering our Estimated Leader’s offer? He’s right on a point; we’re not turning away players who want to join.”

“The more the merrier,” Nautica chipped. “But if you need time to think about it, take it. The Circle of the Lost Light can be, well, a handful,” she rubbed the back of her head. “We don’t mess things on purpose, I swear! Well, almost never,” she amended.

Optimus’ lips twitched. “That’s hardly reassuring, you know. But at least I suppose it’s truthful.”

“Always,” Nautica nodded vigorously. “Soooo…?”

Optimus paused, thinking.

He’d have to join a Guild eventually, he knew as much. But… did he truly want to hang around with Rodimus, even if the younger mech was far more amiable online than he was in real life?

Rodimus was nice, true, but…

Optimus would always have the impression of being judged. Rodimus knew his history, or at least most of it – Cadets in the Academy had to know the tale of how Optimus had messed up and gotten someone else killed.

Truthfully, if he had to join a Guild or any kind of group, Optimus thought he’d be happier doing so with mechs he had never met and didn’t known back on Cybertron, mechs who would not know of his past and his errors and how much a sorry mess he was.

“It’s tempting,” he finally said, looking at Nautica in the optics, “but I don’t think I’ll join just yet. Perhaps at a later date?” he added quickly, noticing the smile sliding off the preppy femme. For all she pretended Optimus didn’t have to join in right now, she certainly looked like she had hoped to.

“Wise choice,” Nightbeat nodded. “If you ever decide, give us a call, alright?” he said before moving, beckoning Nautica to follow him. “I got in contact with Anode and Lug, they’re waiting for us at the Red Fork inn in Staniz Port.”

“Oooh, are we going fishing?” Nautica asked, sounding upbeat.

“In a manner of speaking…”

Optimus watched them go, thoughtful.

Well… it had been an interesting meeting.

_It’s a **GAME** , my friend. A game! There is no need to always prim and proper here! You can be and act any way you choose!_

Rodimus’ words resonated in his helm and he looked at his hands. He wasn’t sure he could ever act as carefree as the younger mech, but… Rodimus Prime wasn’t wrong, was it? Optimus had connected in order to keep his mind off his current problems, but somehow, he hadn’t been able to leave them behind. Not yet.

He needed to work on that, he decided.

On his next session, Optimus promised himself as he started the log out sequence. On his next session, he’d see if he could… lighten up about his game play.

Hopefully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *rubs her hands* Ah, Rodimus. The brief apparition he made in TFA made him appears so serious, but I liked his Lost Light version so... Rodimus' In-game persona and wild antics are tailored on IDW Rodimus, and I regret nothing! ^^
> 
> (And come on, he'd be perfect to put a Leroy Jenkins and you know it :p)


	2. The Flobsters, the Mute Bard and the Geomancer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein there are flying metal lobsters, a freak tornado and an awed Youngling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas, Everyone!
> 
> Here's a gift for you readers. :)

Flobsters were inoffensive, they said.

Flobsters were a joke, they said.

Flobsters were easy to kill, they said.

Well, Bumblebee begged to differ!

Mentally cursing, the yellow mech tried to accelerate and run faster, the flock of Flobsters hot on his track. He had been running from them since he had left the beach and they still hadn’t lost his tracks! Seriously, nobody had ever mentioned to him that the ‘inoffensive’ flying lobsters were super-persistent predators! Or that they flocked together to face off against enemies!

They were supposed to be basic, easy to kill enemies – and perhaps they were when faced individually. The thing was, Flobsters rarely stayed alone and the trick to eradicate them easily was to kill them before they had the time to send an alarm signal. Sadly for Bumblebee, nobody had clued him on that fact and now…

Well, now he could only run for his metaphorical life, silently despairing and swearing he was going to tear into the Quest giver the moment he was able to (except, not; NPCs couldn’t be killed by players, so he couldn’t even have sweet, proper revenge. Perhaps he’d go vent his anger on a discussion forum instead?).

Perhaps the situation wouldn’t have been so dire if he had been able to go on the offensive and fight back. Only, there was a problem with that. Okay, two problems; one, he wasn’t equipped to deal with multiple enemies at one. And two… How was he supposed to do it when he couldn’t use his Songs?!

Slag the Silence Status to the Pit and back! And slag the developers who had thought it was funny to give it to nearly all the enemies Bumblebee had met so far!

_Curse you, Universe!_ He thought furiously as he jumped over a low wall in his path. The presence of the wall was actually a good thing; it meant he was getting closer to the outpost, and if he could reach it, there’d be NPC guards who would do short work of the mob of Flobsters. He wouldn’t get any EXP out of it, sure, but at least he’d be free.

Just another effort, he reassured himself. It wouldn’t be long now. He just needed…

The wind started to pick up without warning. Bumblebee stalled as violent gusts went past him, making him yelp. Behind him, he heard the screeching of the flock as the wind threw them off course. Bumblebee halted and turned on his heels, optics wide, as the wind seemed to start turning on itself, locking the Flobsters in a spiral.

No. No way, he shook his head. Was that… a tornado? Oh frag, it was! And it had happened just behind him, he was lucky to not have been caught in it! The game had freak tornadoes, now?! What the Pit the programmers had been thinking? Creating a death trap?

Still silently cursing, Bumblebee bolted forward, realizing he needed to find a measure of protection against the tornado, even if it was oddly localized. He ducked behind a cluster of tree, peeking from behind the meager cover to watch as the trapped Flobsters kept spinning on themselves faster and faster, screeching loudly as they took damages from the wind itself and from continuously hitting each other. A few were already starting to dissolve themselves into pixels, ‘dead’.

Good, Bumblebee thought viciously. If he had been able to, he would have hooted in delight.

It took a moment, but eventually the tornado died down just as suddenly as it had appeared. The remaining Flobsters, disoriented, seemed to have lost all interest in pursuing Bumblebee, which was good. He wondered briefly if perhaps he shouldn’t go and finish them… then realized that they could always bring a new flock if he missed. Not worth the risk he decided.

So he stayed hidden and watched as the Flobsters’ programming, not identifying any enemy to latch on, went back to ‘dormant’ and the remaining flying lobsters turned and headed back toward the beach.

Bumblebee counted to ten before cautiously sliding from behind the trees. So. Flobsters’ killing was a flop. That left him in a bind, because he had no idea what other Quest he could try at the moment. Not that he’d risk taking any so long he hadn’t dealt with the current Silence he was inflicted with…

“Hello? You’re alright here?” an unknown voice called from a short distance, making Bumblebee blinks and look around frantically. He had been so focused on escaping the Flobsters he hadn’t even paid attention to the player characters he had passed on the way. Apparently, one of them had felt charitable enough to follow and check out on him.

That was nice of the guy, he thought with warmth. Especially since he was certain at least two of the other players he ran past had been laughing their head off at the sight of a Bard flying from a bunch of relatively low-level, easy to kill flying metal lobsters.

Which, okay, he would have laughed at too if he had been in their position. But it was good to know not everybody was like that.

Bumblebee smiled in the direction of the player who had spoken to him. Tall, red and blue armor, a deep blue cloak with a hood with white fur at the border, holding out a staff despite the axe visibly strapped on his back, he looked worriedly at Bumblebee, who gave him a thumb up to signal he was alright.

The mech smiled back, but kept rubbing the back of his helm as if embarrassed by something. “I’m glad you’re not injured. The Terrible Tornado has a wide AoE so I hesitated to cast it, but it was the fasted and safest way to take down those Flobsters, given their number…”

Wait, the mech had actually _casted_ the tornado?

Allspark Almighty, Bumblebee thought faintly. That was… that was so _cool_! And a bit freaky too, but mostly cool! He didn’t know there were players who could do that!  
“Anyway, I’m glad you’re alright,” the other mech continued, offering his hand to take. “I’m Optimus. Geomancer,” he added after a bit. “And you are…?”

Bumblebee opened his mouth, intent on presenting himself… and no sound came out. Oh, right, Silence meant he couldn’t speak normally either, he thought with annoyance. The developers had pushed things a bit too far to his taste when it came to game play, and the Silence status affecting normal communication canals was one of them.

“Is everything alright?” Optimus asked, blinking. “Are you experiencing malfunction or… Oh. Silence Status?” he asked, sounding sympathetic to Bumblebee’s plight as the yellow ‘bot nodded reluctantly, shrugging. “It’s always a pain to deal with for Spell casters. And I guess it does explain why you weren’t able to take the flock down by yourself,” he added ruefully. “Do you have anything to heal yourself?”

Bumblebee shrugged again and shook his head, grimacing. It was an honest question, but seriously, did the other mech think he was stupid? If Bumblebee still had had a Voco-Cord Remedy in his inventory, he would have taken it already, long before he had had to run off from a stupid bunch of Flobsters! As a matter of fact, he had had three in his bag when he had set out of Bordo Harbor; all had been used before he had met the Flobsters, when he had kept running into enemies fond of using Silence on him.

“I see,” Optimus sighed, reaching into his own inventory before tossing a familiar-looking phial at him. Bumblebee caught him by reflex, feeling elated as he read the label.

Oh, sweet Voco-Cord Remedy, how he had missed it, he thought as he opened the phial and downed the content in one gulp, smiling widely as the ‘Silence’ icon disappeared from his screen. “Thank you!” he exclaimed. “Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou!” He jumped in the other mech’s arms, almost toppling him over.

“Uh, you’re welcome?” the other mech replied, looking bemused. “It was just a Voco-Cord Remedy, though.”

“It was a lifeline,” Bumblebee replied, releasing Optimus. “Seriously; I go through them faster than I go through a cube of energon IRL! I used all my stock earlier,” he explained, feeling he needed to justify himself. “Didn’t get a chance to go to a marketplace and buy more before I encountered the Flobsters. Not that I would have much chance against them in the first place,” he sighed, his happiness dimming. “Songs are good at boosting up stats, but I’m slag at actual fighting.”

“Songs? Oh, you’re a Bard!” Optimus snapped his fingers.

Bumblebee’s good cheer dropped a bit further.

“Yeah, yeah, lucky me,” Bumblebee sighed, taking a few steps to go sit heavily on a tree stump. “It’s a shitty class to play. You can’t do much damage with it, and I spend so much time being hit by Silence Spells I took to using my music instruments as blunt weapons,” he confided, whining.

“Why not pick a dagger to go along with your instruments?” Optimus asked, sitting next to Bumblebee. The yellow mech threw him a look, wondering what the taller mech’s angle was. Was he truly sympathizing with Bumblebee? Was he trying to offer genuine tips?

“I tried,” Bumblebee mumbled, “but I can’t equip one at the same time as my instrument and I lose time whenever I need to switch, during which I keep taking bad hits. My defense sucks too.”

“Bards are long-range fighters, their defense reflects that, so if you have to go for direct contact, I’m not surprised you experimented trouble. But I thought the switch between weapons was semi-automatic?” Optimus frowned.

“Not for Bards, apparently,” Bumblebee sighed. “I should have kept being a Minstrel. At least Music isn’t affected by Silence, or at least not to the same extent as Songs. Or I should have gone for Dancer; Dancers don’t have to deal with that slag. But nooo, I wanted to try and distinguish myself,” he muttered dejectedly. “And now I’m stuck, because I don’t want to erase my character and go back to the beginning and I can’t get a secondary account.”

“Money trouble?” Optimus asked, still sounding deeply sympathetic to Bumblebee’s plight. Eh. For an older mech, he looked cool enough.

“Kinda?” Bumblebee ventured. “I mean, yeah, I don’t have the funds to begin with, but apparently, the game’s safety protocols wouldn’t let me try and install another avatar. I’m apparently too young to handle the data packs accumulation or some slag like that.”

“Too young to…” Optimus mouthed, looking stunned. “How old are you exactly?” he asked suspiciously, and Bumblebee tensed. Uh. Perhaps the older mech wasn’t as cool as he had first guessed, if he was going to act all mighty and stuffy over Bumblebee still being considered underage.

“Why?” he asked sharply. “Does it rattle you to know Youth Sectors’ residents can play too?”

Optimus raised his hands in defense. “No! I didn’t mean to imply… It’s not… I don’t care if you’re that young! It just… surprised me. Almost all players I met are self-sufficient adults; S.T.O. doesn’t come for cheap, and Younglings…”

“Don’t have a shanix to their name, yeah,” Bumblebee nodded, not completely mollified, but unwilling to pick a fight over something so trivial. “Snowstorm Entertainment gave the Sectors copies of the game for free. Dunno if it made the news?”

“Not the ones I read, but since I’m off from Cybertron most of the time, I experience delays when it comes to newsletters’ reception,” Optimus mentioned. “Weird, though. Was it a marketing campaign?”

“Don’t know, don’t especially care,” Bumblebee shrugged. “I was just happy to know I could play the big game. Or at least, I used to be happy,” he amended, lips tugging downward. “Then I had to mess it up by picking out one of the most useless Class there was to play. Huzzah for me,” he added, self-depreciating.

“Bards are **not** useless, Youngling,” Optimus replied sharply. Geese, give people an hint about your age and they all went ‘Youngling this’ or ‘Youngling that’; it was super annoying.

“Yeah? Could have fooled me. It certainly isn’t working for me.” He kicked in a stone at the base of the stump, watching it fly off further and lost itself in the grass.

“If you’re playing alone, I’m not surprised you find it difficult,” Optimus remarked, making Bumblebee raise his head to look at him curiously. The older mech’s expression reminded him a lot of his teachers in the Youth Sector, but in less stern. “Bard is not a good class for Solo-playing. Most of the techniques they develop are Stats Boosters for their party and Status Alterations to cast on enemies. It makes them good companions to have in a Raid, a Dungeon or a Battlefield, but it also means that exploration by themselves is difficult, since they have little in mean of physical and/or magical attack.” He looked at Bumblebee with a contemplative expression. “Have you tried to go on Quest while paired up with another player? Preferably a Fighter Class or an offensive Magician Class? They’d be the best to cover for you.”

“… I can’t say I have,” Bumblebee confided after staring long and hard at the other player, feeling vaguely ashamed of himself. It had never occurred to him he could… just go and ask someone else if they could give him a hand. It wasn’t as if it was working in real life, so why would it work in Seiberutopia Tales Online?

“You should try,” Optimus advised, looking at him with kind optics (and Bumblebee hoped they didn’t hide any pity toward him; he wasn’t a ‘bot to be pitied, thank you very much!). “When I used to play the first time around, there used to be a public message board where you could drop requests for help. I don’t know if it still exists, though,” he admitted reluctantly. “But even if it doesn’t, you can just hang around the NPC Quest Givers and ask fellow players if they want to form a party.”

“And they will accept just like that?” Bumblebee asked, head tilted to the side. That sounded too good to be true.

Optimus visibly hesitated. “… Decent ‘bots readily accept.” But not everyone is a decent ‘bot, Bumblebee caught the unsaid words and slumped. “But if you want my help, I wouldn’t mind assisting you when I can,” Optimus added quickly. “As a Geomancer, I can’t effectively cover you or help you in close range, since I’m more into distant damages, and the AoE of my Spells tends to be wide and not differentiate between allies and mobs, but I’m sure we could work up something…”

“Wait, wait,” Bumblebee blurted. “You… You would accept to join a party with me? For real?”

“Well… yes?” Optimus blinked. “Is something wrong? Do you… Do you not want?” He sounded genuinely worried.

“Nonononono! I mean, no, I wouldn’t mind joining a party with you,” Bumblebee corrected himself quickly, seeing the look on the other player’s face. “But I… we don’t even know each other! Why would you even propose to help me? Why did you even help me with the Flobsters in the first place?”

Optimus looked at him straight in the optics. “Because it was the decent thing to do and because helping you climb levels and have genuine fun is also the decent thing to do when you’ve been clear you have a hard time doing so by yourself.” He squared his shoulders. “Someone reminded me that S.T.O. is just a game, and a game should be fun and enjoyable, especially for the younger members of our species. So perhaps I’m a bit forward, but I’d like to make sure your time on S.T.O. isn’t spoiled by whatever bad experience you had so far. I also genuinely think Bards are amazing when played right,” he added as an afterthought. Bumblebee suspected he had added it just to make him feel better.

He didn’t have to; his speech alone had been… Motivating. Somewhat. It certainly sounded genuine and the mech probably thought it was inspiriting. Which it was. Kinda. If you squinted hard enough. He hoped the guy came up with better speeches in real life. At least his words were apparently heartfelt, which was something that Bumblebee definitely appreciated.

Uh.

It seemed Bumblebee had truly met a helpful ‘adult’. Who could have guessed? There weren’t that many of them in Bumblebee’s life. Okay, okay, his teachers, Umbra, Officer Sideswipe were technically useful, but they weren’t always the kind of useful Bumblebee needed or wanted. They didn’t just… get him. Optimus probably wouldn’t if they met in real life, but at least he was trying?

“Forming a party has a few non-negligible advantages too,” Optimus continued. “It offers a special discussion canal which is not affected by the Silence Status. It’s just a chatbox, but…”

“Hold it right down! You mean that if I’m in a party, I could still communicate despite having Silence cast on me? I won’t be stuck just signing my way around until someone cast the proper healing Spell or I can get a Voco-Cord Remedy?” he asked hopefully. Suddenly, the idea of joining a party was a lot more seducing.

Optimus’ lips twitched. “Indeed. Interesting, isn’t it?”

Bumblebee nodded with enthusiasm. For that reason alone, he was ready to sign up whenever he could! “It’s a deal,” he proclaimed, holding out a hand for Optimus to shake. Then he flustered. “Uh, though I admit I don’t know when I’ll get a chance to actually do it. I mean, we, uh, we kinda have limited access to the game.” No need to tell him about curfew and privilege for good behavior and marks, but it was only fair he knew Bumblebee might not be able to take him out on his offer each time he came online. Eck, he wasn’t always certain of _when_ he’d be allowed back online himself!

“I understand,” Optimus reassured him readily. He was smiling ruefully. “I can’t connect every day either, depending on the shifts I have to cover. But I’m certain we can work something out. Can I have your Comm. ID? It’ll be easier to set up meetings if we can send each other private messages.”

“True,” Bumblebee allowed, sending a ping toward the other mech, and receiving one in turn. [Optimus, Lvl 16 Geomancer, want to add you to his contact; Y/N?]. He ticked the [Y] box without an afterthought.

“Bumblebee? Nice name,” Optimus said after he received and validated his own ping.

Bumblebee flushed. “Don’t laugh about it!” He knew it wasn’t a very impressive name, but it was his, damnit!

“I’m not laughing,” Optimus swore. His optics were shining with mirth, though. “So, Bumblebee, do you still have time for a link-up?”

“Depends,” the smaller mech drawled. “Would this link-up involve dealing heavy damage to flying metal lobsters by way of tornadoes?”

“Or tidal waves,” Optimus offered. “I can do that too when I’m near the sea. Geomancers have ground-based spells,” he explained at Bumblebee’s disbelieving look. “Some are universal and others are only available when I’m on a certain type of terrain, though I think I have the possibility to unlock them for permanent use once I reach a suitable level. Beaches allow me to use Tsunami.”

“Ooooh, that I have to see!” Bumblebee exclaimed. “Count me in, old mech!”

He rubbed his hands, grinning in mischief as he clicked on the invitation to form a party Optimus sent him and started following him back toward the beach he had just escaped from.  
Tornadoes and now Tsunamis?

If he had known Geomancers could do that, he might just have picked it for himself. Oh, well. Whatever. One thing was certain, though ; he knew a bunch of Flobsters who were going to live through a very rough time.

Bumblebee didn’t know if revenge truly was a cold dish but from his point of view, it certainly promised to be a very sweet one.


	3. Three For An Escort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ratchet and Omega has an hard time filling a Quest. The easiest solution? Join up with an other player. But Ratchet is very reluctant, for what would an outsider think of Omega...?

“I’m very sorry, Ratchet.”

Omega sounded so contrite Ratchet could only sigh and pat his helm lightly (something he had still trouble believing he could do on regular basis, even if it was in a virtual world. Omega’s choice for a small-sized avatar had strange but positive side-effects). The Omega Sentinel seemed to melt under his touch, leaning into his hand as much as he could.

“Don’t worry, my friend. It wasn’t your fault,” he reassured him gently.

And it truly wasn’t, he mused. Not really anyway. It was just the damn setting.

When they had picked that Escort Quest earlier, Ratchet had thought it’d be easy; they were two, and two players were supposed to be sufficient to deal with the Marauding Bandits which kept assaulting the caravan between Bordo Port and the outpost they were supposed to bring supplies to, at least according to the Quest’s description.

The problem was, Ratchet kept forgetting his limitations as a Healer, which meant he was slag at dealing damages (or rather, he wasn’t so much forgetting than being stubborn about it; were they truly expecting him to stay behind or run while Omega was in trouble, game or not game?). The fact the Bandits had nearly five levels on him and Omega both wasn’t helping at all.

To Omega’s credits, he was doing pretty good for himself – so long Ratchet could keep an optic on him and send healing Spells his way, that’s it. Omega was a good mech, but he still couldn’t understand the principle of strategy, unless it was Ratchet who came up with one and who told him what to do. As he had always done, even in the real world. It pinched at the medic’s Spark, for he had hoped Omega would grow a little more independent during the gameplay but apparently, it was not to be.

Oh, Ratchet wasn’t losing hope. He had known, realistically, that it was a shot in the dark, a Fool’s hope at worse and that even if it could work, it’d take a very long time for Omega to start acting like a fully cognizant mech. He was just… tired. Tired to see how badly the war and Command’s plans had deserved his friend.

It wasn’t always that bad, though. Focused or not, Omega still had moments where his programming seemed… quieter. Last solar cycle, Ratchet had found him waiting for him on a bench, watching a pre-programmed litter of Cyberkittens play at his feet with reverence. And Omega always seemed genuinely happy when they filled Help Quests in the cities, never tired or bored to go fetch items and bring them back. He also hadn’t lost his fascination with the fishers in the harbor, and Ratchet had started to put coins on the side to buy him a [Good Fishing Rod] later. Omega just needed a level more to unlock the Job option, and it was already clear he’d be a Fisher.

Ratchet just wished whatever savings he managed to do didn’t systematically end up in repair for their gears.

Even with him as a Healer, their tendency to ‘die’ and awake in the cemetery stayed higher than he liked. But between their respective lack of experience, well… It wasn’t totally a surprise.  
Take their current Quest; it was the fifth time they had failed. It wasn’t a record, but it certainly was heading that way.

The first part of the mission wasn’t difficult; Bandits came in one at time, Ratchet only had to point them out if Omega hadn’t already seen them, the Warrior engaged and ‘killed’ them, then came back to walk along the wagon. The rhythm gradually went faster as they progressed on the journey, until Omega had to rush from one side to the other to meet assailants – and Ratchet occasionally went to deal with one by himself if he was certain Omega could do without another round of healing Spells.

He might be slag at actually hitting someone, but that didn’t mean the old mech wasn’t resourceful. Or that his inventory wasn’t full of useful items, such as the Shatter Bombs he had bought in an Auction House.

Damn things were useful, but since they were low-level explosives, they could only do so much damage and Ratchet was systematically short on them by the time they reached the last third of the journey.

The problem always came there. To up the difficulty, the caravan was systematically rushed from both sides; Omega could only defend one side and Ratchet was forced to try and deal himself with the other Bandits. This meant he couldn’t keep Healing Omega at the same time, and the Marauding Bandit Leader dealt heavy hits. Ratchet kept losing life fast on his own too, and usually ended the first to ‘die’ in the fight. And if by miracle he managed to hold his own, the mobs’ aggro shifted from him to the caravan’s NPCs. And if they died, well…

It counted as a Mission Failed too.

“Are we trying again now, Ratchet?” Omega asked, and Ratchet had to refrain from wincing.

“In a bit, Omega, in a bit. I need a break first – and we need to repair our gear too, remember?” he added quickly as Omega’s expression started to fall again. “You don’t want your axe to break in pieces like the last time we forgot, don’t you?”

“No, Ratchet,” Omega replied, chastised. “Are we going to the blacksmith, then?”

The Healer nodded. “Yes.” He looked at his charge for a moment, thoughtful. Honestly, at this rate, they were never going to be able to fill the mission. Their best option at this point, at least in Ratchet’s opinion, was to give up and go back to pick and fill easier Quests, level up a bit then try again once they were certain they could handle the Escort Quest by themselves. The problem was… “Omega… are you certain you don’t want to do another Quest?” he asked warily, making sure to keep his voice friendly and judgement-free.

Omega blinked, raising his chin to look at Ratchet in the optics. “The mission must be fulfilled, Ratchet.”

“I know, my friend. But… it’s a hard one. Are you certain you don’t want…?”

“The mission must be fulfilled, Ratchet,” Omega repeated, and Ratchet hated, oh yes, he hated how bland Omega’s voice was at this very moment, as if he was a drone repeating a pre-recorded message.

Frag those battle protocols, the medic silently seethed. And frag whoever had programmed Omega to begin with! Omega just… didn’t know how to give up once he had an objective in mind. In this case, his objective was to bring the caravan safely from a point A to a point B, protect the civilians and protect Ratchet. He wouldn’t let go before he had managed it.

Frankly, Ratchet was worried about it. It wasn’t healthy at all for Omega’s systems. In the best case, it would cause him mental anguish over not being able to fulfill a task he had been given, something that all Omega Sentinels had had trouble with. In the worst case… Omega Sentinels were willing to sacrifice themselves to make sure the mission was a success. The consequences in a video game weren’t as dire as the ones in real life, but it didn’t make Ratchet more comfortable. If anything, it stroked his guilt and his helpless rage further.

(Frag, that had been a hard realization, back in the War. Call him petty, but Ratchet still felt vicious satisfaction over the near riot which had taken place in the Sentinels’ hangar when several members of the projects had let their discontentment with the issue be known to the Higher Ups. It hadn’t changed anything, because there hadn’t been anything to be done by this point, but at least Ultra Magnus had listened to their concern. Probably helped that, being bonded to a Sentinel himself, he had a better understanding of the situation than the whole Sciences Ministry put together.)

But what could he do? Nothing, he realized with a heavy Spark. The programming issue and the battle protocols weren’t something he could fix by ‘magic’, unlike the ‘damages’ their game avatars were taking. The best Ratchet could do was mitigating the damages by making sure Omega didn’t get overly focused and harmed himself (or others; the possibility haunted Ratchet, though he’d be hard pressed to admit it aloud).

“It must,” he finally nodded, offering Omega a pale smile. “Let’s go see the blacksmith. And on the way, we’ll stop on the Central Plaza.”

Omega tilted his head to the side even as he obediently started to follow the older mech. “Why, Ratchet?”

The Healer hesitated for a moment before sighing. “We’re going to try and recruit an additional party member for the Quest.”

*-*-*-*-*-*

Truthfully, Ratchet had hoped they’d avoid teaming up with strangers altogether.

Oh, he had known from the beginning that, given the gameplay of Seiberutopia Tales Online and his and Omega’s inexperience with gaming, it was practically impossible, but he had still hoped. After all, as a Warrior and Healer team, Omega and him had the basis covered, hadn’t they?

How naïve it had been of him, the old mech thought as he finished redacting an announcement.

[Warrior Lvl 14/Healer Lvl 17 duo search for a third party member for Escort Quest: Food on the Way! Meet up at Bordo Harbor’s Main Gate, next to Quest Giver Kralla. Modalities to be agreed upon meeting.]

Probably not the best announcement he could come with, but it’d be sufficient, Ratchet decided, handing a couple of silver coins to a NPC who acted as the ‘boardmaster’. The missive disappeared from his hand and reappeared immediately among the other parchments pinned to the wood.

The old mech hoped he wasn’t going to regret it. Some of the players he had come across since Omega and he had started playing were true fraggers he wouldn’t have minded socking in the face to teach them politeness. Others, Ratchet had firmly told to go bother someone else when they had tried to recruit them for their Guild, because Healers were apparently in high demand – and completely dismissed Omega in the process, just seeing him as a generic and not-very-skilled Warrior.

Meh. That’s why he wasn’t fond of young ‘bots.

Others players, thought, had been okay enough, giving helpful pointers before going on their way. It was one of those few gamers Ratchet grudgingly acknowledged as nice people who had told him about the Message Board. Apparently, each city of a certain size in S.T.O. had one. The principle was simple: if you were searching for material to sell or to buy, if you weren’t part of a Guild or couldn’t ask your Guild mates and wanted to recruit party members for a specific Quest, if you just wanted to share requests, then you went to the Message Board. You paid a small fee and in turn, your message would be published for all to see.

The femme who had given Ratchet the tip had claimed it was very efficient, but the Healer waited to see.

“There,” he said for Omega’s sake. “Now we just have to wait.”

“Will someone come to help us?”

Ratchet nodded. “If they’re interested, yes.”

“But why?” Omega asked as he followed Ratchet, the two of them ducking in one of the side alleys, a shortcut to their favored blacksmith’s shop.

“Multiple reasons,” Ratchet replied, glancing over his shoulder to meet Omega’s curious expression. “One is that they may be seeking to fill the Quest as well and since it is recommended to do it as a party, they’ll be searching for other players to do it with them. Another possible reason is that they have done the Quest before but want to redo it again, usually because they want to pick a special item which didn’t drop the last time they did it.” He nibbled on his lower lips. “Or,” he added slowly, “they could be interested in a reward. Some players are, ah, a bit like mercenaries,” he explained for Omega’s sake as the smaller mech made a questioning sound. “They agree to help lower-level players, but in return, they want the Quest’s money.”

“That doesn’t sound very fair, Ratchet,” Omega commented, frowning.

“Probably isn’t,” Ratchet agreed, “but it’s the way things work. Hopefully it won’t come down to that for us.” Because they were really going to need the money soon. Repairs still took a significant part of their budget, he thought as they stopped in front of the blacksmith’s shop. As usual, the NPC was busy hammering down a piece of metal on an oversized anvil, only stopping when Ratchet engaged in conversation and handed him the money for repairs.

Omega’s axe and plastron started glittering, as well as Ratchet’s arms protections and hooded cloak. A now familiar bell sounds resonated in his audio receptors.

[Repair completed!]

“Of course they are,” Ratchet mumbled, checking his equipment window. Sure, strength was back at 100%, but the durability had decreased. You could only repair the same weapon or the same protections so many times before they became brittle and were eventually irremediably broken down. He’d have to buy them sturdier armor the next time they had the funds, Ratchet thought grimly. “Okay for you, Omega?” he asked the other mech.

“Yes, Ratchet,” the other mech solemnly nodded. “Are we going back to the mission now?”

“We’re going to wait near the Quest Giver,” Ratchet amended. “Until someone decides to join us. We can’t do it with only the two of us, Omega.”

“I don’t understand,” the other mech said after a moment. “Am I not strong enough to protect you?” He sounded hurt, and Ratchet was quick to walk to him and wrap him into his arms. He wouldn’t have done it for anyone else, but Omega was a special case.

“Oh, Omega. It has nothing to do with how strong you are,” he reassured him. “You’re plenty strong as you are but sometimes, it doesn’t matter how strong you are if there are too many targets to aim at.” He scrambled through his CPU to find an example the Omega Sentinel would understand right away. “It’s a game tactic. We need extra hands to deal with the enemies. Like… when you, Sigma, Gamma and Eta were all deployed to protect Iacon, remember?”

Not the sweetest of examples, considering it had ended with two destroyed Sentinels and the last two, Omega and Sigma, in a comatose state, but at least Omega understood it. The Decepticons had just been too numerous for a single Sentinel to effectively defend Iacon.

“I remember,” Omega said quietly. “Will I have to protect the newcomer as well?”

Ratchet guffawed; he couldn’t help it! Omega sounded so serious… Ratchet shouldn’t have found it so amusing, because he knew Omega in real life, knew exactly what weapons he had at his disposition and his true size. But he also knew that if Omega walked straight up to another player and said ‘I’ll protect you’, all this hypothetical player would see was a Minibot-sized mech with a very serious expression and they’d be dumbfounded.

Omega took protecting people very seriously. It could be either a good thing or a bad thing, depending on the situation, Ratchet mused.

Privately, Ratchet hoped that if they managed to get someone, it was someone who was stronger than them both and that for once, it was Omega’s turn to be ‘protected’, so to speak. “Perhaps,” he said instead. “But let’s find ourselves a party member before you decide he has to be protected too, yes?”

*-*-*-*-*-*-*

“Are we going to wait for much longer, Ratchet?”

The Healer refrained himself from cursing. It wouldn’t help and it wasn’t Omega’s fault if he was bored. They had been waiting for someone to show up for a good while now, and so far, they had had no luck. It didn’t surprise him Omega’s patience, which wasn’t always the greatest, was starting to fray. Eck, Ratchet’s too was on its last leg!

“I don’t know, Omega. I guess it’s not a popular Quest,” he added as an afterthought after seeing the look on Omega’s face. Slag it, he hated it when the kid started to have those kicked Turbo-Puppy optics!

Perhaps he should have proposed money as reward, Ratchet inwardly sighed. Then they would probably have found someone already. Checking his chronometer, his agitation grew. He had less than a megacycle left with Omega now, and he didn’t want to leave him alone with a failed Quest on his CPU.

He groaned. Well, there went the idea of a team up. But perhaps it was for the best, he consoled himself. He didn’t want people to ask too many questions about Omega and it was bound to happen if they…

“Pardon me? You’re the players searching for a third?”

And Primus hated him and had a bad sense of timing, Ratchet decided, glaring daggers at the approaching stranger who had hailed them. Black and gold painting, a blue visor, a simple travel cloak draped over his shoulders, there was nothing very distinctive about his avatar that could have allowed Ratchet to narrow down the Class to which he belonged. Probably not a Fighter Class, though, else there’d be a hint of an axe or a broadsword or another type of heavy weapon on his outward equipment.

“We may,” Ratchet replied grouchily, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re interested, kid?”

The stranger frowned. “I may,” he replied frostily. “I had thought about taking this Quest myself. Joining your party will make it easier for me to go through it. Unless I’m not what you were seeking?”

Ratchet opened his mouth to answer, only for Omega to cut him. “Ratchet, is this our new teammate? Can we start the mission now?”

And just like that, Ratchet’s temper deflated. Omega sounded so eager… He didn’t want to disappoint him. “Maybe,” he replied to his charge before leveling an unimpressed look at the newcomer. “Alright, here’s the deal. I’m Ratchet, Healer, and that’s Omega, Warrior. We keep running in trouble during the third phase of the Quest. Attacks from both sides, Omega can only do so much and I’m not good at dealing damages. We keep getting killed. A second fighter to protect the second flank while I heal both from a central position and throw Bombs in support seemed like a good strategy to me.”

The stranger nodded. “It’s the most reasonable one given your Class, yes. Were you expecting something specific out of this team up?”

“… not really?” Ratchet said slowly. “I mean, I had expected whoever joined us would want a share of the loot on the fallen mobs, and I’m not unopposed; it would only be fair. Same if there is any additional reward besides what the Quest Giver is promising, a third by participant. Is it reasonable to you?” he asked, feeling wary.

The other mech’s visor flashed. “And that’s all?”

Ratchet felt himself growing angry. “If that doesn’t please you…” he warned, only for the other mech to raise his hands in defense.

“No, no, it’s not a critic! It’s just…” he hesitated, looking as nonplussed as Ratchet. “Those are fair terms. I suppose I wasn’t expecting them to be so.”

And now it was Ratchet’s turn to be frowning, anger abated but suspicion raising its head instead. “I don’t see why it shouldn’t be a fair deal. We do our part, you do yours, we reach the objective and everybody is entitled a part of the reward. That’s how it’s supposed to work, no?”

The other mech smiled thinly. “It’s obvious you haven’t yet met mechs affiliated with the Mercantyle Guild. Fair dealing is something of an unknown for them.”

“Your Guild?” Ratchet asked, suspicion not leaving him, even when the other mech’s expression turned to disgust.

“Of course not! But I was unfortunate enough to have to work with them to go through an Escort Quest in the Prymax Canyons. It wasn’t a good experience and that’s why I hesitated to answer your ad,” he said blandly. “However, if you’re serious about your terms, I’m more than willing to set a partnership for the time being.”

Uh. Weirdly formal mech, Ratchet decided, but he didn’t seem dishonest. Omega was almost rocking in place, bored and more than ready to go, and Ratchet really wanted to finish this Quest and set Omega in a safe place before he had to leave and head for work. He wasn’t certain he fully trusted the other mech (who had not even presented himself; the nerves of those young punks, who taught them politeness nowadays?) but since he was the only one who was proposing himself so far…

“Right,” Ratchet groused. “Listen, we’re a bit on a schedule here. If you can help us finish this Quest really quick, I can always throw in an extract or two as part of your reward. I got the Botanist and Alchemist double job; I could always mix you a Potion,” he said, squaring his shoulders. It was fair, was it not? And additional prizes would be a good motivation for the mech to just do his part quick then leave as fast as he had come in and disappear from their lives.

“An interesting proposition and one I’ll be keeping in mind,” the other mech hummed. “I’m Prowl,” he finally said. “Ninja, Lvl 20.”

“Ninja?” Ratchet repeated and, to his surprise, so did Omega.

“What is a Ninja?” the Sentinel asked.

Prowl raised an optic ridge above his visor, looking at Omega with a pinched expression that made Ratchet want to punch him. Who did he think he was, looking at his friend like that?!  
However, the pinched expression disappeared just as fast as it had appeared, for whatever reason, and Prowl’s voice was neutral and measured when he answered the question.

“It’s a Ranger Class, an evolution of the Rogue.” Omega still looked at him without understanding, so he pursued. “It means that I’m someone who is stealthy, who can hide easily and advance in hostile terrains without setting the mobs’ aggro on me, at least for a certain range. It also means I can’t use an axe like you to fight,” he added. “Instead, I have to fight either hand-to-hand if I want to, or use daggers and knives and throwing items like darts and shuriken. It won’t do as much damage as a Fighter’s hits, but it is very efficient. Does it satisfy your curiosity?”

Omega nodded seriously. “Does it mean I have to protect you?”

Ratchet facepalmed. “Omega,” he groaned.

Prowl’s lips twitched. “Well, I don’t think you will have to; I’m quite able to protect myself. I’m sure your protection will be very needed for the Healer and for the caravan’s NPCs, though. And if I really can’t deal with one of the mobs, I’ll tell you. Does my answer satisfy you?”

“You’re not in need of protection until you’re asking for it,” Omega nodded. “I understand.”

That was… really weird, Ratchet decided. Coughing loudly, he glared at the self-proclaimed Ninja (seriously? Even online he couldn’t escape the Cyberdojo’s famed combatants?). “Okay, now everyone has made friends, how about we start this Quest? We don’t have all day, you know!”

*-*-*-*-*-*

What a peculiar pair, Prowl mused as he kept watch on his side of the caravan, briefly stealing a glance toward Ratchet the Healer and Omega the Warrior when he was certain neither of them was looking his way.

The two of them were a bundle of contradictions Prowl wasn’t certain how to start untangling. Still, looking at them, a few facts stood glaringly obvious to him.

1), Ratchet was an older mech – as in, older than Prowl himself.

It was the only reason he had let the ‘kid’ comment slide without rising to the bet. Prowl knew that for mechs of a certain age, all those younger than them had earned the monitor of ‘kid’. Even Master Yoketron… Ah, but the Master would have never been so disrespectful. He preferred to use ‘Young One’, which was infinitely more polite and didn’t make his interlocutors feel like a Youngling at fault.

Maybe he’d say something to Ratchet eventually… but it was a trivial thing over which to pick an argument, so probably not, after all.

2) Neither Ratchet nor Omega were particularly good players.

That in itself was and wasn’t a problem; there were plenty of Cybertronians out of them who were like them, people who had never played video games before or who, despite all good intentions in the world, were slow to adapt themselves to Seiberutopia Tales Online’s settings. It could be because they had trouble juggling with the commands, or because their suspension of disbelief was poor and they couldn’t let go of ingrained, real life reflexes. It was common with veterans, or so Prowl had been told. Or more simply, it could just be because they didn’t understand how to boost up their avatars or had picked a Class which wasn’t adapted to their way to play.

Prowl was tempted to put Ratchet in this category; he was quick to head Spells his way, particularly Mercuro-Cold and Kynina, which respectively restored one quarter and one third of the target’s life points, but the rapidity he had and the pinpoint accuracy made Prowl wonder if a Magician of some kind wouldn’t have suited him better.

It was also tempting to lug him in the ‘Can’t let go of real life’ category as well; the way he mumbled under his breath about the silliness of magic and how a blow from that sword should have logically cut off Prowl’s arm and not just let a scratch was intriguing. But it had also opened Prowl’s optics on a third fact.

3) In real life, Ratchet was most certainly part of the Medical Corps.

In which position was harder to pinpoint, but Prowl was fairly certain of himself. In a way, it helped explain the grouchiness (sort of) and the low suspension of disbelief over the monsters they met and the injuries he had to ‘heal’. Scientists aside, medics had some of the highest-functioning CPU out there; as a result, they dealt with the triple of information packages than the average citizen. Their capacity to receive, analyze and store information meant they processed it differently and in a deeper way. Things had to be broken down into logical blocks, fitting the molds they were using for each of them.

A fantasy world was probably a bit too much for such a mind to fully enjoy, though it had never stopped doctors and scientists to join in before.

But back to the 2nd Theory. Just like Ratchet, Prowl couldn’t consider Omega to be a good player. But unlike Ratchet, it was harder for him to categorize him.

There was just something about Omega that didn’t quite… right.

Prowl wasn’t sure what. Perhaps it was the way he kept asking questions with the utmost seriousness, questions that were sometimes trivial but which, on occasion, covered subjects that all mechs on Cybertron or in the Commonwealth should have known. Prowl could understand not knowing things about S.T.O. – the game was very vast, the Class and Job system could be complex to follow, the amount of Quests, NPC characters, places to visit and lore was astounding and many ‘bots didn’t have the patience to search it all, which they couldn’t be blamed for.

But Prowl could also honestly say he had never met a mech who didn’t know what the Guilds Domesticus were.

“No, Omega, the Guilds Domesticus aren’t a part of the game. Those are real Autobots associations in the real world. They cover every aspect of our society, notably Maintenance, Entertainment, Transportation,… And yes, the Sciences Ministry is part of the Guilds,” Ratchet explained patiently before Omega spotted a Marauding Bandit and ran ahead, axe rising to deliver a blow.

Any Youngling should have known that; all Youth Sectors were supposed to teach it, given their charges had to take placement exams to get an apprenticeship in one of the Guilds when they were old enough!

But Omega _genuinely_ didn’t seem to know, which was puzzling. And Ratchet had been quick to point out an upcoming enemy to Prowl, glaring as he did as if to discourage questions and Prowl had preferred not to insist.

He could have chalked it to the other mech being young and perhaps not very attentive during lesson time… but when you listened to him and took the time to observe him, it was obvious Omega neither sounded nor acted like a Youngling.

He had had doubts after seeing him rush forward the moment he registered an enemy, not taking the time to look or think of a strategy outside of hacking it to death, he had to admit. It was a crude tactic, one Prowl personally disliked. Mechs who used it tended to be… hard to work with. ‘Arrogant exhaust-suckers’ was the nicest way to describe them, in his opinion (and he didn’t feel guilty to have abandoned a few right where they stood after they acted like it; game or not, Prowl wasn’t there to let himself be insulted).

But Omega wasn’t like that. He acted properly chastised every time Ratchet called him out on it, looking genuinely contrite and in Prowl’s opinion, he wasn’t faking it… only to repeat the same type of attack scheme on the next enemy. It was as though he couldn’t help himself, which added another layer to the mystery.

Once again, it made him consider the idea Omega was a Youngling. His actions, his inability to consider another strategy, seemed on par with the technique a Youngling would use – but there were also plenty of brutish mechs who used it. Decepticons, notably. But if Omega was a Decepticon, then Prowl would eat his own shuriken.

Perhaps he was just confident in his avatar’s ability to take hits? Fighters had a natural resistance to damage that other Classes didn’t have. Warriors were sturdy and with Ratchet backing him, perhaps Omega’s own confidence had been boosted?

It was an interesting theory… but only if you didn’t account for Ratchet’s worried look whenever Omega rushed at the next enemy.

Or if you ignored the way he swore a blue streak whenever Omega had optics bigger than his fuel tank and took on multiple enemies at once, clearly worried out of his mind. Which, granted, might be a symptom of Ratchet’s unwillingness to dissociate real and false risks and to acknowledge the fact Omega was perfectly safe despite the risks he took…

But that didn’t seem right either.

It was most curious and it nudged Prowl’s interest, even as he ducked under a Marauding Bandit’s arm and, turning swiftly, slashed his daggers at him in the back. The Bandit dissolved into pixels, dead, and Prowl lost no time taking the handful of coins and the [Rough Linen] he had dropped before jogging back to the caravan.

A pink halo around his frame announced Ratchet had sent a Kynina his way. Sure enough, his energy bar rose from a third in a klik; Prowl nodded at the medic, who barely spared him a glance before turning back to look at Omega and his own fight.

Prowl’s lips twitched. Talk about a one-tracked mind. Allspark Almighty, you’d think he was…

He paused.

Oh. Oooooh. Yes. Yes, it could explain a few things if he was right. No wonder Ratchet seemed ready to freak out whenever Omega put himself in ‘danger’ and honestly, Prowl might have acted like him if he had been in the same situation.

He glanced at Ratchet’s back. He was grouchy, ill-tempered, but he had kept his word so far and Prowl had no reason to think he’d break it once they finished the Quest. But it was clear he was getting more and more stressed as they were progressing. Afraid of another wipe out, perhaps? If so, it was stupid; it would only be a setback and they could try again. It was the principle of the game, after all. Then again, he had mentioned being on a schedule, so perhaps he was worried about the passing time.

Hmm. No matter. It wasn’t Prowl’s problem; his only objective here was to fill and validate the Quest.

And if he threw a dart on one of the Marauding Bandit rushing behind Omega’s back while he was busy hacking down another…

Well, he was just working to get his part of the reward, after all.

*-*-*-*-*-*

If he had blinked, he’d have missed it.

Prowl had a very good accuracy; the dart he threw passed seamlessly between two wagons and hit the target right in the neck.

Ratchet gave Prowl a dark look but even as he did so, he felt a surge of relief as the Marauding Bandit behind Omega’s back stumbled and changed path, aggro shifting to gather on Prowl, who was already waiting for him. He still didn’t trust the Ninja, but at least the mech also had Omega’s back. It lifted a weight off the old mech’s shoulders, knowing there was someone else to do it, even if it was only for a little moment.

Omega could be a handful, Ratchet thought ruefully as he aimed a Kynina his way before looking at Prowl again, but he wouldn’t have him any other way. They were progressing far more smoothly with Prowl’s martial power to reinforce Omega’s and this time, they might very well be able to pull it off.

That said, even if he was grateful for the help in keeping Omega ‘safe’ and in filling the Quest, Ratchet wasn’t certain he enjoyed the extra work of having to heal another player at the same time as Omega. Perhaps it’d have been easier if they had been on the same side of the caravan, but since it wasn’t the case, Ratchet had to constantly shift target and it was starting to make him dizzy.

Frag, if it was how it went for a Healer in those Dungeons and Raid parties, then Ratchet would be perfectly happy to stay far away from them with Omega for only company!

“Alright there, Ratchet?” Prowl asked, walking up to him after dispatching his latest adversary.

“Of course,” Ratchet groused. He hadn’t taken any damage, him! “We’re nearing the last third of the way. You’re ready for it, kid?”

The Ninja gave a short, jerky nod. “Of course. How many are supposed to attack at once?”

“They do it in three waves,” Ratchet replied, drawing on his memories of his and Omega’s recent failures. “First there’ll be a Bandit with an Attack Hound on each side of the caravan, then two Bandits plus a tame Cryo-Condor on one side and two Bandits on the other. One of them will be mounted on an Equinoid, so careful with him,” he warned.

“Understood,” Prowl nodded seriously. “And the third wave?”

“The Marauding Bandits’ Leader, Longstep,” Ratchet groused. “You won’t be able to miss him: Decepticon-tall, armed with a scimitar and a shield. We only saw him the once; Omega was already low on life and I was short on Mana, so we didn’t even have time to engage the fight properly and see what strategy to apply with him before we got sent to the cemetery.”

“It’s alright,” Prowl nodded after a moment of silence – probably checking his command windows, Ratchet guessed. “His name isn’t on the list of the identified Mini-Bosses, so he must only be a strong hostile NPC. There are no special tactics to deal with them – you only have to hit them with everything you have. If you still have Shatter Bombs or anything stronger, I’d suggest you keep them for him. Any additional firepower might be needed,” he warned.

“Good thing I didn’t have to use my stock so far, then,” Ratchet replied sarcastically, already reaching in his inventory to pick up the half-dozen Bombs he had bought before heading out of Bordo Harbor. For once, he hadn’t had to use a single one. “I’m not sure they’ll help you much,” he reluctantly admitted. “They’re not that powerful…”

“As I said, any additional firepower might be welcome, no matter how small,” Prowl repeated. “Sometimes, a blow which takes out one point of life can make all the difference.”

“Something you saw happen?” Ratchet asked curiously.

The Ninja nodded. “Yes.” He looked at Omega, who was walking back to them. “Do not worry too much about your charge, Doctor. As far as I can tell, he’s doing pretty well for himself despite his… handicap,” he finished carefully.

Ratchet jerked, optics widening. “What…?” His optics darted to Omega, who had stopped in his steps to look at a small mechanimal on the side, apparently fascinated. Narrowing his gaze, he quickly turned back to glare at Prowl. “The Pit are you talking about?! Who told you I was a doctor anyway?!”

Prowl blinked. “Am I wrong? You used many technical terms in your mumblings; I had assumed you belonged to the medical profession. And pardon me my boldness, but…” He hesitated briefly. “Omega seems to have cognitive difficulties. Once it’s known you’re a doctor, it’s not hard to draw the link and understand Omega is one of your patients. Though given how worried you tend to be for him, I thought a charge, most likely an adopted one, was more probable. I know he’s not a Youngling, so I’m guessing he took a severe injury to the helm at some point, which must have damaged his processor.” He coughed, clearing his throat. “If I may, Doctor, I think it’s admirable of you to have taken him in and to devote yourself so much to his improvement and comfort.”

Ratchet stared at the Ninja, his metaphorical Spark beating fast. That was… completely wrong, but also scarily accurate, in a certain sense. Ratchet truly was a doctor, and Omega truly was his charge, for a certain definition of the word. Omega truly had cognitive difficulties, there was no denying it. But to think someone could have deduced it when meeting them for the first time… “And you deduced all that from just, what, half a cycle of gameplay? Are you some kind of Detective?” he asked, trying to sound sarcastic and failing.

Prowl winced. Uh. Seemed like Ratchet had hit a sensitive point of his own; who could have guessed? “Or something,” he nodded slowly. “There is no shame to that, you know,” Prowl added after a klik of silence. “There are many mentors who play alongside their students or adopted Creations. And… Omega is hardly the first mech with impairment who takes to playing video games. I think hospitals were thinking of using video gaming as a therapy tool? It was in the news a couple of orns ago…”

“Yes, something like that,” Ratchet replied, thinking back of Arcee and the long-term resident ward patients, all hooked to S.T.O. He nibbled his lips, deep in thought. Should he… confirm Prowl’s suspicion?

It was as good a cover as any, honestly, and it had the merit of explaining Omega’s… difficulties and obvious gaps in general knowledge. As much as it enraged him to have other mechs think of Omega as being ‘damaged’ or ‘impaired’, Ratchet couldn’t deny it held a trace of truth. Omega’s CPU took longer to process information and it had been built with simple patterns so he wouldn’t question his orders. In this aspect, he truly was ‘impaired’.

An ‘impaired’ mech and his friend… Ratchet swallowed.

It wasn’t as if he could reveal to anyone he had managed to bring a surviving Omega Sentinel out of stasis to download his conscience in a game so he could socialize and have a chance at being a person rather than a weapon, was it? As far as Cybertron’s general population knew, all the Omega Sentinels had been destroyed in the war; High Command wouldn’t take lightly on anyone not involved in the project learning the truth. Ratchet could land himself in deep trouble, and whoever he revealed the truth to could be in even deeper ones.

Not that Ratchet thought he could hide the truth indefinitely either. Sooner or later, someone was bound to discover it, but so soon… ?

He breathed in deeply. “It’s not a subject I want to talk about,” he grunted, looking uneasy. “And it’s not something I want to see you discuss with him,” he added with a death glare. “I refuse to see Omega thinks of himself as lesser because there are things he can’t understand, got it?”

Prowl nodded. “Perfectly well, doctor. I understand completely. Should you need any further help after this Quest, I’d be happy to help – for his sake,” he added, seeing Ratchet’s suspicious look. “He seems like a bright young mech.”

“... he is,” Ratchet allowed. He wasn’t certain he wanted to take Prowl’s offer but… how many Quests out of there would need an extra pair of servos to fill? Might not be a bad idea to keep Prowl in his contacts for later. He should… he should thank him. Right? “Prowl, I…” he started, unsure. Slag, he hated presenting excuses or being overly nice.

“Ratchet?” Omega called. “I can see the Bandit on the Equinoid on the hill over there.”

“Do not go engage him!” Ratchet immediately shouted. “There is no need; he’ll come at us only when the first wave will be dealt with! You stay near the caravan to protect the NPCs! Prowl, it means the Cryo-Condor will be on your side, careful with that beast, it’s a fast one.”

“Good thing I’m fast too,” the Ninja chirped, already darting to the side, seeking his next opponent. “Ready for them too, Doctor?”

“It’s Healer for you!” Ratchet snapped back, already charging up a Kynina.

“My excuses,” Prowl replied smoothly, sliding into an attack position.

Tss. Arrogant aft, Ratchet thought, grinding his dental plates as the two Bandits materialized out of nowhere and zeroed on Prowl. Seemed like their Ninja partner wasn’t the only one with Stealth skills around; Ratchet hadn’t remarked that the last time they had reached that part – but then again, he had been too busy avoiding getting stabbed while also supporting Omega’s failing forces. No trace of the Cryo-Condor yet, but he was bound to come in soon.

Speaking of Omega, the Sentinel had obeyed. He was fighting his first adversary right next to Ratchet’s wagon. A little too close for comfort but at least it’d be easy to heal him.

“Careful there, Omega!”

“Yes, Ratchet,” the other mech replied, little frame buckling as he raised his axe handle to stop a blow from touching him. Another of Prowl’s darts flew overhead, reaching Omega’s adversary in the arm. Not enough to make him shift his aggro to a new target, but it took off a few lifepoints out of his energy bar, which was always something.

Smart aft, Ratchet thought again.

That said, even if he was thinking of Prowl as an aft, he was doing so very fondly.

After all… a mech who thought Ratchet and Omega shared a parental bond couldn’t be all that bad, could he?


	4. Cat Got Your Bomb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bulkhead discovers he isn't a fan of Auction Houses -- oh, and a virtual Photovoltaic-Pussycat stole one of his prototypes.

“How much for ten blocks of [Iron Ore]? That’s extortion!”

Bulkhead’s jaw almost dropped at the sum displayed on his screen. He had heard prices in the Auction House weren’t always fair, but that was beyond unfairness. Pure and simple robbery, that’s what it was!

Who asked for 1.000 Gold for a stack of basic raw material which normally sold for a dozen Silver coins the bar? Who would even be willing to pay that much for so little goods? Who even had the means?

Apparently, a lot of people who weren’t Bulkhead, the big green mech realized dejectedly as he saw stacks after stacks disappear from the Auction House’s screen, all for prices counted in hundred Gold coins at the very least.

Lightbright had been right about everything in the Auction House being overpriced, he thought, shaking his head as he exited the building, realizing there wasn’t much he could do here. Low-level items didn’t seem to sell at all, while basic material and raw components could reach astronomical prices that left Bulkhead feeling dizzy and wondering how people had managed to gather so much wealth in game.

They couldn’t all belong to the Mercantyle Guild Lightbright had warned him about, could they? Or perhaps everyone was starting to copy them? If so, then they were completely rotting the system for new players.

He shouldn’t have come, he sighed mentally, going to sit on a bench on the Central Plaza, watching players and NPCs alike walk around him. But what other choice did he have? NPC traders always bought his creations, but… he really needed the extra money if he wanted to buy better material for to realize his newest blueprints. Surely there had been nothing wrong in wanting to sell [Copper Wiring] to a slightly higher price than he could have gotten from a standard buyer?

But the dozen of rolls he had left in the Auction House still hadn’t sold after three solar cycles, much to his chagrin and consternation. The price he had asked wasn’t unreasonable, after all, and it was a lot cheaper than the ones practiced by a couple of other players. Same went for his [Small Screws] and his [Bags of Nuts], and that was more curious, because while Bulkhead might be a low-level player, he also knew how the Machinist Job worked.

No matter how high-level your blueprints, you always needed older components, usually to forge back into newer, sturdier ones (like the [Copper Wiring] being transformed into [Reinforced Wiring] with the addition of other mechanisms) until you had the good, usable ones for your device.

Machinists created their own components from Ores and raw materials brought to them by Miners and occasionally by Leatherworkers. So in theory, there was no need for them to buy already-made components. Except, of course, that items crafting took a lot of time in itself, especially at higher levels, and lots of people preferred to take shortcuts, as Bulkhead had discovered.

[Bags of Nuts], [Leather Straps], [Metal Plates], [Long Screws], [Iron Bolts],… They were all in high demand and there never seemed to be enough for everyone.

So the fact that after three solar cycles, no one had made a bid on Bulkhead’s goods was not only a surprise, it was also getting suspicious.

He wasn’t ready to throw accusations around but…

Given how Mercantyle had a vast interest in keeping the high-hand on the Auction House, what were the chances they hadn’t put in place schemes to do just that, by making sure small producers couldn’t get in edgewise?

Lightbright had said they concentrated on high-level items, but if they had the market for that, what was stopping them to gradually make their way lower in order to have more ‘clients’?

It sounded silly even saying it aloud, Bulkhead realized, rubbing the back of his head. No. It had to be his imagination. Most likely, he had decided to sell in a wrong period. Three new Dungeons had opened on the map as well as a new Battlefield; evidently, players had flocked to them and crafting had taken a backseat while everyone gushed on the novelties. In a few solar cycles, they’d calm down and people would go back to what they usually did in the game, he reasoned. Then his low-level crafted items would sell better.

He was sure of it.

In the meanwhile, though, he was kinda stuck. He had counted on the sale of his crafted items to have enough money to buy better Ores. Without the additional money, Bulkhead needed to review his plans. The Ores in the Auction House were too expensive for him anyway. What he needed was a NPC selling Ores and Gems… or finding a player with a Miner who wouldn’t mind selling him [Metal Ores] at market price.

“That might be done,” he mumbled to himself, optic ridges furrowed in thought. Of course, he’d have to work on the terms of the ‘contract’; it was well-known that while players with a Gathering-type Job didn’t mind helping those with Crafting-type Jobs, they expected a reward for doing so, and the ‘fees’ they asked for their help could largely vary.

Bulkhead really wished other players weren’t so focused on being wealthy. S.T.O. was a game; why would it matter if you were rich in it? It wasn’t as if that wealth was worth anything in the real world!

If he could have avoided it, sincerely, he would have.

Sadly, it was the most viable option he had at the moment, at least if he wanted to stay solely focused on crafting. The other option was to go back to adventuring, fill Quests with monetary rewards to further fill his wallet and hope he’d find useful stuff for his blueprints in the loot taken on felled mobs. But honestly, it didn’t tempt Bulkhead too much. Adventuring was nice, but he wanted a break. He really… he really wanted to do something with his hands, so to speak.

And he wanted to do those [Super Plumbum-Kin Bombs], slag it!

So far, he had only managed to gather the components to make three, which he was hesitant to use so long he didn’t have a way to produce more. It was a pity, because he really wanted to see what they looked like when they blew up.

Sighing wistfully, he took one out of his inventory, lips tugging upward as he took in the Plumbum-Kin demented smile, slowly turning the bomb in his hands. He didn’t know why most players considered them a joke item. Sure, basic [Plumbum-Kin Bombs] didn’t do that much damage, but neither did [Shatter Bombs] and nobody was laughing at them, did they?

Perhaps it was due to their silly appearance? But Bulkhead liked the silly design. Plus, the demented smile on the palm-large explosives reminded him of the Mortilus Festival celebrations on Luna One. They used to have an energon-crystal carving contest, and some of the faces really resembled those on the [Plumbum-Kin Bombs]. Perhaps one of the programmers or one of the game designers had been from Luna One? It would certainly explain the level of details and inside jokes Bulkhead had spotted since he had started to play.

Humming to himself in deep thought, he tossed the Bomb in the air a couple of time, playing a light game of ‘catch’, mentally working on the ad he’d have to post on the Message Board. The angry hissing of a mechanimal made him lost concentration, head swiftly turning to the side to see what was going on – apparently, someone hadn’t been watching where he was going and had accidentally put his foot on the tail of a Hunter’s pet Cougaraider, who was now angrily clawing at the offending foot while his owner tried to restrain him – and he forgot to catch it again.

The bomb fell to the ground and started rolling. Bulkhead quickly rose from his seat and started to run after it. It wasn’t armed, so there was no risk it’d blow up without warning, but still…!

“’Scuse me, coming through, ‘scuse me, sorry,” he repeated again and again, trying not to shove people out of his way as he did so, optics still focused on his rolling bomb. By miracle, no one had stepped on it or kicked it away, though there were close calls.  
“Oh frag, no!” Bulkhead blurted out, seeing a Photovoltaic Pussycat snatch the explosive in his maw and start running between people’s legs, heading for one of the side alleys. Since when the mechanimals of the game could do that?! They were supposed to be background elements! But here he was, running after a stupid cat-construction who had stolen one of his bombs!

“Get back here, you Nano-Fleas infested scumbag!” he swore under his breath, trying to follow the Pussycat as fast as he could, which was no small feat. There were less players in the alleys, but the obstacles were aplenty, from stalls occupied by traders to barrels piled to the side or spilled in the middle of the path and to puddles of suspicious colors he preferred to sidestep to be safe. The Photovoltaic Pussycat had less trouble, using his small size to slide between barrels, ducking behind ladders inclined against wall, jumping over puddles in a switch, elegant move. It was fast too, Bulkhead realized with dread; the damn thing was almost out of the alleys now, and if Bulkhead couldn’t hurry up, it was going to disappear with his Bomb!

“Nononono,” he groaned, trying to accelerate, but already knowing he wouldn’t make it.

He was already resigning himself to losing the item, convincing himself it wasn’t so bad, he’d make more once he had the means, when the Photovoltaic Pussycat was suddenly hurled to the side, hitting a wall and dropping the [Super Plumbum-Skin Bomb] it had stolen. The crop-shaped explosive rolled a bit, until hitting the foot of a player character who had just ventured at the other end of the alley, axe at the ready and optics solely on the downed Pussycat.

“Eh! Eh, you! Careful where you step!” Bulkhead called out, cursing as he hit a barrel in his haste. The wooden construction caved under his weight, spilling part of his content, a bunch of [Aurum Apples]. Uh. Would it be wrong if he snatched a few in passing?

No. No, he couldn’t steal, he decided. Carefully, he gathered the [Aurum Apples] and put them back in the barrel… or tried to anyway.

The other player, the one who had stopped the thieving cat, blinked at him for a moment before slowly lowering his gaze to stare at the demented smile of the [Super Plumbum-Kin Bomb], which he gingerly picked after strapping his axe to his back. With his other, free hand, he grabbed the Photovoltaic Pussycat by the tail and lifted it to his head.

Slowly, he smiled. “Got you this time, you little thief!”

The cat-shaped construction mewled pitifully before a cage materialized around him. “Do not mewl at me like that,” the other player warned. “Now, to get you back to the Quest Giver…” He stopped himself, looking at Bulkhead who was watching him with big, hopeful optics. “Oh, eh there; is this yours?” he asked gently, showing up the Bomb in his hand.

“Yes, yes it is,” Bulkhead nodded eagerly, holding both hands forward to get it back. He swiftly put it back in his inventory the moment the newcomer gave it back to him with a sigh of relief. “Thank you so much,” he said gratefully. “When I saw the Pussycat was about to disappear with it…” He eyed the cage around the captive felinoid with new optics. “He’s part of a Quest line, then? That’d explain why he made off with my Bomb. Normal felines aren’t supposed to be able to interact with the players. I feel stupid not to have noticed sooner,” he said, rubbing the back of his helm.

“Don’t be,” the other player replied gently. “I wouldn’t have believed it either if I hadn’t taken the Quest. It’s called [Pretty-Pawed Petite Pilferer]; I got it from one of the Constables making his round on the South-East rampart, and I couldn’t believe it when he told me he was trying to find a literal cat burglar. Apparently, our little friend here,” he shook the cage a little, “has the nasty habit of making off with any items that are left in the open. Usually he steals from NPCs, but sometimes he can actually swindle player characters. That’s how I tracked him down, by the way – following the NPCs’ comments about a cat behaving strangely, I mean,” he amended, babbling. “It took me a while to narrow down the zone but after a while, I realized he was moving alongside a pre-set path and I just needed a good place to set up an ambush. Now I just have to, uh, give him to the Constable to validate the Quest,” he coughed.

Bulkhead guffawed. “Sorry!” he said quickly, seeing the look on the other player’s face. “It’s just… I had a funny thought. Do you think they’ll put tiny cuffs on him after reading him his rights?”

Now it was the stranger’s turn to guffaw. “Now you mention it, it wouldn’t surprise me; Constable Watt, the one who gave me the Quest, is a bit… odd. You’ll see what I’m talking about if you want to undertake the Quest.” Shaking his head, he held a hand out for Bulkhead to shake. “I’m Optimus, by the way.”

“Bulkhead,” the green mech replied, shaking it earnestly. “Thank you so much for getting me that Bomb back.”

“It was nothing. I didn’t know they made [Plumbum-Kin Bombs] green; I thought they were all orange,” he commented after a beat.

Bulkhead shuffled. “Well, the standard ones are orange,” he confirmed, taking one out of his inventory to show him, “but that was a Super; those are green.” He showed him the Super again before both Bombs disappeared back into his inventory. “The Big ones, which is an intermediary level between normal and Super, are actually red. I don’t have any currently, but I got the blueprints for them. And the [Mega Plumbum-Kin Bombs] are purple with black leaves on top.”

Slag, now he was the one babbling. Surely, Optimus was going to tune him out, bored by the unnecessary details over an explosive which was considered a big joke but… No. He was looking at Bulkhead like he was truly listening, and as if he was truly finding it interesting.

“Oh? And are there other models too?” And it sounded so much like a genuine interest Bulkhead’s shoulders sagged in relief.

“Uh, yes, actually. At least a dozen, according to the online encyclopedias I found, but getting the blueprints for each is kinda hard. Some are drops from Bosses or specific mobs, and other are on sale only during seasonal events. Others, you can find for sale at a Job Master’s House, but only if you have reached a certain level in your crafting skills or if you have mass-produced the other, lower-level types of bombs. That’s why I’d like to do more [Super Plumbum-Kin Bombs], really,” he added awkwardly. “I mean, it’s meanly to use them first, since they’re more powerful than my stock of normal [Plumbum-Kin Bombs], but if I manage to make three hundred, I’ll be able to unlock the blueprint for the [Mega Plumbum-Kin Bomb] model, and I’d really like that. But it’s not for now,” he sighed wistfully. “I don’t have enough coins to buy the raw components I need. Ores are cheaper, but I’d need to buy them in bulk to make them go through several transformations and while I really want to do it since right now I just want to do crafting, I can’t.”

He took his face in his hands. “And now I’m babbling and I’m sorry and I won’t bother you again, I’m really sorry, it’s just that I love talking about those bombs and I know everyone think they’re a joke items but I find them fun and you’re the first person in forever who listen and… shutting up now,” he breathed in deeply, forcing himself to keep his mouth closed.

Optimus just blinked a lot, his expression softening. “There is no harm. You perfectly have the right to love a thing, you know, and nobody should forbid you to.”

“You really think so?” Bulkhead asked, cheeks hot in embarrassment. Optimus sounded really nice, just like Lightbright had been.

“Of course,” Optimus nodded firmly. “Tell me more about your crafting. Bombs are Machinists’ creations, right? Or do Tinkerers have access to it too?”

“Oh, no, no, just Machinists,” Bulkhead shook his head. “Tinkerers can do a few devices too, but Bombs are considered more complex by the game’s algorithms, so you have to be a Machinist to do them. That’s kinda why I picked the Job; I wanted to be able to make them in the first place,” he offered.

Optimus nodded. “Sounds reasonable. I must deliver this little fellow in the hands of the law; do you mind if we continue this conversation while walking? Unless you have something else to do…?” he tried, only for Bulkhead to frantically shook his head.

“Nuh uh, I don’t! And uh, yes, perhaps I could pick that Quest too. It’s kinda funny, arresting a cat for burglary, yes?”

“In a way; I think someone decided to try and make a pun too many when they went through Quest ideas,” Optimus confided, walking out the alley with the cage swinging in his hand. The captive Photovoltaic Pussycat hissed. “You have the right to remain silent,” the other mech replied dryly, making Bulkhead chuckle. “So, Machinist. What can you do outside of Bombs?”

“Oh, all sort of things, really,” Bulkhead replied. “At my levels, I can mostly craft components for more complex devices. Screws, nuts, bolts, wiring, refined metals, nails,…” he listed on his claws. “You always, always need them and the blueprints for them are easy to find or to buy. From there, you usually unlock things like [Metal Cylinders], [Cogwheels] and other pieces needed in more important devices. You can also make your own [Blasting Powder], which is important if you want to create your own explosives. Plumbum-Kin Bombs asides, I got the blueprints for [Shatter Bombs] and [Frag Grenades]. Oh, and for [Small Red Fireworks],” he added as an afterthought. “The kind you use for small celebrations. I got it recently from a treasure chest.”

“You really have a fondness to make things go ‘boom’, don’t you?” Optimus commented with a smile, making Bulkhead coughs awkwardly. “I thought Machinists could also make weapons and mounts to ride?”

“Oh, that,” Bulkhead nodded. “I can do guns, but I don’t have any blueprints for them yet. They’re next on my list, though. I know I can get a few cannon models for myself I won’t find in the NPCs’ stalls and the Auction House…” He shook his head dejectedly.

“Yes, I know what you mean,” Optimus sympathized. “A few of the players in there are bigger thieves than our little furry friend here,” he said, raising the cage a bit. “Since you’ve mentioned cannons for yourself, I suppose it means you’re a Cannoneer, right?”

“Still a Gunner, actually,” Bulkhead corrected, “but I can use light cannons too. That said, it’s true I want to be a cannoneer once I can put my hand on the right Class Changing Item.”

Optimus hummed. “You prefer wide AoE to single targets, then?”

Bulkhead frowned. “Preferring isn’t quite the word. I just think touching multiple enemies at once is more interesting, especially with those who call reinforcements if you’re not fast enough. Not that Snippers aren’t interesting too; you can shoot from further away and your shots pack a lot of power, and that’s kinda cool, because then you don’t have to put yourself in harm’s way, but I think it’s too slow to work through large amount of mobs.”

“Mobs don’t usually attack in clusters, though,” Optimus pointed out.

“Yeah, but if you lure them all in the same zone, then set out explosives or use an attack with a large AoE…” Bulkhead countered. Optimus hummed noncommittally, but it was hard to say if he was agreeing or not. Bulkhead took a closer look at the blue cloak trimmed with white fur the other player wore and snapped his fingers. “Oh, but you’re a Geomancer, right? You must know what I’m talking about!”

“I do,” Optimus nodded shortly. “Which is why I think you need to be careful with AoE. Your team isn’t always immunized to their effects.”

“Oh,” Bulkhead mouthed. “… Is that the case with your techniques?”

Optimus winced. “Some of them at least. I didn’t get a chance to test them all yet, since most can only be used on specific terrains, but what I saw do push me to be careful with them. I don’t regret upgrading to the Geomancer Class, but I’ve come to realize it’s not as easy to play as most Magician Class.”

“I thought it was a Support Class?” Bulkhead asked hesitantly.

“Officially, but I’m still wondering why,” Optimus replied on the tone of confidence. “But never mind that. I have to be careful with the techniques I use. That’s why I just used a simple axe blow to bring down our little cat burglar instead of, oh, dropping a tornado on his head.”

Bulkhead blinked. “Wait, you can do that?”

Optimus smiled thinly. “Oh yes. There is wind everywhere, so it’s one of the Spells I can cast whenever I want, but can you imagine the damages a tornado could do in a city like this one?”

“Cities are mostly impervious to damages,” Bulkhead pointed out helpfully. “There is only a handful of features which are destructible, and they all reset after a certain time. Though it might have freaked out the other players,” he allowed.

“Oh, right,” Optimus murmured. “I had forgotten. Still… tornado versus thieving Photovoltaic Pussycat? Talk about overkill!”

They both laughed about it. The image of a flying cat came to Bulkhead’s CPU and he guffawed, looking at the poor mechanimal in its cage. “Poor little guy.”

“The poor little guy is an unrepentant thief, do not forget it,” Optimus pointed out. “To go back to what we were talking about, you can do guns, but you haven’t confirmed about mounts, have you?”

Was he hoping Bulkhead could make him one? If so, he risked to be disappointed.

“You’re thinking of the [Mechanical Stallion], I take? Technically, yes, I could make one, since it’s a Machinist creation, but I don’t have the level both in term of skills and in term of gameplay to even consider it. I’m Level 17 only; I don’t have access to the areas where I could find the blueprints for the [Mechanical Stallion].”

“What about the [Fancy Steam-Powered Ostrich]?” Optimus asked. “I saw a player with one the other day; it sounded like a fun mount to ride.”

“I guess?” Bulkhead hazarded, trying to remember what the creature looked like. He remembered what a standard [Steam-Powered Ostrich] looked like, but the Fancy one… “But I think the blueprints for it are part of the loot on a Boss in the Thermina Steppes and it’s a Level 40 and above accessible region.”

“Level 35, actually,” Optimus replied before frowning. “Or at least it used to, I admit I haven’t checked since I started playing again.”

“Old player, uh?” Bulkhead asked. There seemed to be a lot of them around. He could count the newcomers to S.T.O. like him he had met on one hand.

“Not that old, but yes, it had been a while since my last connection,” Optimus nodded to himself. “Thank you for the information, though. I never really looked into the Machinist Job and neither did my… my friends… back then.” He looked like he was struggling to say that.

“You’re welcome,” Bulkhead replied evenly. “Sorry I couldn’t be of a bigger help,” he added, sure the other mech had to be disappointed with him. But Optimus just stopped in his steps and looked at him with a tilted head.

“Whatever for?”

“Well… You… I thought you wanted…” Bulkhead hesitated, taking a step back and shuffling nervously.

“I wanted information, that’s all,” Optimus said forcefully, frowning. “Nothing more and nothing less. Why would you suspect otherwise?”

Bulkhead shuffled even more. What could he say? That when people were cozy with him, it was usually because they wanted something out of it? That, since Optimus had helped him get one of his Bombs back, he might want a reward in turn? He didn’t think Optimus would be very impressed with his reasoning. “… I dunno,” he replied instead.

The other mech looked at him intently. “I don’t need anything from you, Bulkhead,” he said slowly and levelly, and Bulkhead’s Spark almost dropped. He had fragged up, he thought sadly. Now Optimus was going to leave and… “Your company is perfectly sufficient. And, if anything, I’m the one who could be doing something for you.”

Wait. “What?” Bulkhead asked feebly.

Optimus unstrapped his axe from his back. Only, it wasn’t an axe anymore – it was a pickaxe. Bulkhead stared at the transformation with wide optics. Pickaxe meant… “Miner Job?” he blurted out.

Optimus nodded gravely. “Exactly. I’m not very high-level, since I focused more on climbing my avatar’s levels rather than my job’s, but I got plenty of Ores in my bank account I wanted to sell at some point – or give to someone who may have need of it,” he added, avoiding Bulkhead’s gaze. “Granted, it’s mostly [Iron Ore] and [Scrap Metal] plus a few [Golden Rocks] and [Flint Shard] so I wasn’t sure it’d have any value, but given what you told me about Machinists always needing basic stuff…” he trailed off.

Bulkhead swallowed dryly. “Were… were you… planning… to sell them to me?”

Because that was…

“Or give,” Optimus confirmed. “And I’m still planning to. I mean, they take a lot of space in my bank account and I have no need for it personally, unless a good Machinist would be willing to craft a few items for me in exchange of a fee?” He winked and Bulkhead couldn’t help it.

In a rush, he took Optimus in his arms and lifted him from the ground in a big hug. The red and blue mech yelped, dropping the cage. The Photovoltaic Cat screeched, unimpressed by the rough treatment.

“Thank you,” Bulkhead said. “Thankyouthankyouthankyou!”

“No, ah, no need to,” Optimus wheezed. “Down, please?” he added weakly.

“Oh, right,” Bulkhead let him go and Optimus coughed. “So, uh, you wanted me to do something special for you? In exchange of some of the Ores you don’t need, I mean?” he added quickly.

“Well, if you have enough for [Super Plumbum-Kin Bombs] and can spare a couple, I wouldn’t say no to them,” Optimus winked. “I don’t have much use for them myself, but I met a mechling the other day who could do with an extra arsenal. I thought I’d surprise him with a gift.”

Bulkhead swayed on his feet. “You actually want…?” he said, voice choked with emotion.

“Yes?” Optimus replied, taking a step back, obviously wary of getting trapped in another Krystar iron-bear hug. “If you can spare any, that said. If not, any explosive you can make will be welcome. And if you need more Ore, you can always ask me, I’ll see if I can find something for you,” he added. “Is it alright with you?”

Bulkhead grinned, feeling fluttery and content and very, very moved. He had met all sorts of people since he had started to play S.T.O., but he had the feeling Optimus was a really special person.

“More than alright,” he replied. “Yes, more than alright.”

“Good,” Optimus coughed awkwardly, bending down to pick the cage he had dropped earlier. “So, how about I finish handling this little thief’s case?”

“Lead the way,” Bulkhead said, saluting. And if Optimus wanted to lead him further…

Well, he certainly wouldn’t be opposed…

**Author's Note:**

> *rubs her hands* Ah, Rodimus. The brief apparition he made in TFA made him appears so serious, but I liked his Lost Light version so... Rodimus' In-game persona and wild antics are tailored on IDW Rodimus, and I regret nothing! ^^
> 
> (And come on, he'd be perfect to put a Leroy Jenkins and you know it :p)


End file.
